#and also because i don't want to do this much work all at once

[thechthonicherbalist]

Sometimes you lost important things out in the rainstorm and you only go in to dry and warm up a little or until the worst is over before you go back to safe them. Sometimes you have to face the storm many times until everything important is also in a safe and dry place. Sometimes you don't have the privilege to warm and dry up in between getting all these things in or else they take irreversible damage.

Sometimes they already have, because they were never meant to get wet or built to deal with heavy wind and storm. Sometimes you can only get in what was damaged and fix things or recreate them or grieve them and accept that you have to make do without them once the storm is over even if it was important, irreplaceable things and life will be harder without them.

And sometimes while you're in the dry place with everything important and start to settle down and feel safe, the storm gets so bad it causes a flooding and you need to escape again.

This is not about storms and rain, drying and damage and floods. This is about saving yourself and having to go back to uncomfortable memories, conversations and circumstances to safe parts of yourself that got caught up and maybe took damage or were destroyed during traumatic circumstances in your life and fix them, replace them or at the very least grieve them and let go of them. War. Severe illness. Betrayal. Death. Abuse. Disasters. All kinds of catastrophic events can cause this.

You have to do this so you don't get stuck in a place of trauma or else your life won't go on or you'll start to use and hurt others because you try to work on the artwork of life with missing or damaged tools.

If you're stuck, sometimes you will meet people who call you out or make you aware of the things you're missing or that got damaged and were never repaired, went missing and were never replaced or the ones that are irreplaceable, unfixable but were never properly grieved.

Often it's people that recovered and fixed their own stuff after a similar event and urge you to go out into the rain and do the same or they see those dusty old boxes of broken things on your shelf and they will urge you to go and get what you left behind in the storm or they will urge you to unpack the broken things and fix them, sometimes they offer help.

This can hurt and make you angry or upset, because you are scared of the storm, of the damage, the cold and wet and pain or you're overwhelmed and have no idea how to fix things or how to replace these very important things that hurt so bad to lose. And it seems so easy for those who already did that, often it will seem like a person with fixed things and circumstances got those things done with next to no effort, like everything just came their way naturally while you have to work hard and have to suffer to get there...

And you're right... you will have to work hard and it will be scary and painful to get all this done. But the people urging you on know that, it was not easy for them to do this either, it only looks easy because now that the work is done, they're in a much better place and they want you to be in that better place too.

It can get you angry, scared, defensive, sometimes you will try and get hurt and scared and rained on again and you end up blaming them for all the past pain and loss the storm blows in.

But I hope you heal regardless and that when the storms of life are over and the sun is out, you don't hide in self-imposed exile and isolation for the rest of your life, with your broken tools and canvases hidden away in boxes you're scared to touch.

Because this is not where you were meant to be.

I hope you reach for these boxes on your shelf, where you keep all the broken things and memories. And I hope that you open them and I hope you cry over them and feel everything they contain until you feel the calm and relief of having processed all the pain, the anger, the hurt, the betrayal, the loss, all of it. And then I hope you reach into them and fix what you can and throw out what you can't and wander out into the world to get new, fresh things that are unbroken and have better quality and last. And I hope that you live. I hope that some day you will be brave enough to run wild and free into this world and be happy.

I hope that someday your eyes will get used to the brightness of the sun again and that you will see what lies outside of the dark and dusty shelter you sought in a time of emergency.

And I hope the flowers and the birds and the wind and the trees will find you and embrace you and you will fall in love with life again and not only with ideas of beauty and immortality.

I hope you will be ready to embrace and love the world one day.

You don't have to force yourself to bounce back so quickly. I read something recently that said "when you come in from a rainstorm, you don't expect yourself to be dry and warm right away", and it really resonated with me. It's okay to take time to dry off and warm up. Take the time you need to process what happened to you.

[bunnwich]

Was just revisiting your blog for some quality Leona content but I was wondering in you had some more Leona bf HCs to feed us? Tysm for all the hard work you do fr.🛐🛐🛐

Hi! I assume you’re talking about this post? I’m really flattered you enjoy my stuff. Thank you so much!! I’ll echo what I said in my other post that I think shipping and yumeing with a comfort character is very personal and that little headcanons and interpretations can vary from person to person. At the end of the day, it’s about what YOU wanna see and reflect into your romance! I think taking the time to add your own lil HCs and lore is the fun part!

✨MORE✨ Leona Boyfriend Headcanons

Bedtime rituals are important: Leona mentions enjoying baths a few times, so I think that this quiet time with his partner would be his favorite, and Leona is even more motivated to do nightly self-care rituals. And when his partner doesn't stay the night, sometimes he "forgets" and does wear his braids multiple days. (Leona just mentions that you should come over and fix his braids if you don't like how he does it when you're not around.)

Unfortunately, he enjoys banter, teasing, and playfighting. Anyway, he can get a little rise out of you. NGL, he’s a super annoying bf that makes you wanna hit him sometimes, but in a lighthearted way. It’s never mean, only annoying. You'll become wise to his "tells" anyway, and realize he’s not serious (he’s very hard for others to read BTW) BUT you KNOW when he’s just pulling your leg.

Eating meals together is another thing he always tries to do, and works his schedule around this ritual. He likes the idea that you are getting enough to eat, and I do think sharing a meal is one of his love languages. Seeing you nourished and while indulging in delicious food (something he also enjoys) makes him feel good.

He doesn’t tolerate disrespect of you in ANY form, teasing is one thing, but he will never speak badly of you or let anyone else. AND HE’D NEVER IGNORE YOU OR ACT LIKE HE’S SIMPLY PUTTING UP WITH YOU. (✨No aloof BF here!!✨) In fact, he may get the habit of texting you TOO much. He’s a handful, and you are his emotional springboard in a way. He doesn't have many close bonds with others, so when he's away from you for too long, he gets restless and will start texting you what he's doing and why it is so dull without you. (He’d never pull you away from friends or anything because he's pretty self-aware of how needy he can be. We love a man with emotional intelligence.)

He’s not a TOTAL pushover, especially when “Coach Leona” comes out. He's not afraid to tell you when he thinks you’re wrong. A tough love session or two where he may just tell you you're too nosy and should be focused on yourself, or let you know when he thinks you may be going about something wrong. He DOES place you on a pedestal in his mind, and if he’s a little tough on you, it's just bc he wants you to be successful. He believes partners should be a TEAM and push each other when needed. (You’ll certainly love to boss him around!!)

Once together, he will NEVER request that you clean up after him or run errands for him. (Unless you really want to ig.) You're NOT one of his underlings or expected to be subservient to him in any way, you are his partner and therefore equal.

 All of Savanaclaw’s attitude will shift about you, and he will request that they should respect you. And hey, if you are tough enough to get with their “boss” then ofc they would respect you anyway without him even saying.

Queen/King/Prince/Princess (whatever you prefer) Treatment. He wants to spoil you but respects your independence. He’s studied you well enough by now to know when to hold back and let you take control. It’s cute…and VERY attractive to see you lead. In fact, he wants to see you at your best, commanding situations and building your skills.

✨BRO HAS A LICENSE.✨ And (I think) a secret car. He keeps it just off the NRC campus. He used to go for long drives alone along Sage's Island’s coast, but now he has company~ He’ll drive you anywhere you wanna go. These drives with you keep him sane. And he’ll take you shopping and dinner dates, most likely just mean-mugging the whole time or falling asleep on the bench by the dressing rooms. BUT HE’LL DO IT FOR YOU. (Yes, dear…)

His peace is your alone time together, without the noise of the outside world or others. Just curled up in his arms playing mobile chess or watching one of those boring history documentaries I know he's into. (Relationships are about compromise, okay??) He’ll let you choose what you watch, too. He's a professional bedrotter, so on those days where relaxation is needed, he's right beside you, asking you what kind of food you want him to order for you. If you wanna yap to him about the terrible book you just read, hey he’s fine with that too!

He KNOWS he is not the most…well, exciting partner, and that self-consciousness shows through sometimes. He’ll do his best to keep you happy, but he probably needs reassurance that he’s not boring you to death with his 15-minute chess lectures or lethargic lifestyle. He’s an old man at heart.

IMO Leona got his first idea of love from romance novels!! After being disillusioned, he ofc put all that “nonsense” to bed as a kid. But I like to think there is still a part of him who is a hopeless romantic softie. He's secretly dreamed of having a “great love” in his life and a strong partner just like his brother. Someone not like all the others, and who will always be there by his side. So don't be surprised when he pulls out a move or line that you’d NEVER expect him to say. (Maybe a dry delivery, but he’d say it!!)

Not always, but sometimes, Leona can be…strangely sweet, but HE MEANS IT. I do think he’s a bit socially stunted in some areas. As in…he doesn't always know what to say in intimate situations, so stealing a few lines from this “stupid book” he read as a kid is NOT above him. That’s what a prince would say, right? In fact, in trying to be so PAINFULLY logical all the time, he might apply “romance” he learned from books in real life to a devastatingly cheesy, old-fashioned, and endearing degree. (He’d never tell tho.)

I’LL SAY IT, Leona’s version of “lovey dovey talk” is talking in the third person.  “You know your lion loves ya right?” “Your lion’s been lonely without ya.” “Your lion misses his_” (Insert whatever cheesy nickname he’s chosen for you). Notice how he conveniently puts himself as ✨possessed✨ by you. Because that's all he wants!! It's cemented in his head. Before he’s sure you feel the same, he’ll make sure you know that he is, in fact, YOUR lion. No arguments. You have to reap what you’ve sown.

In public, these “Your Lion” quips are whispered under his breath, maybe even in your ear. But, in private, he’s fine with rolling over for you like an overgrown house cat, and saying these things loud and proud. He’s looking at you with such a soft expression, you wonder if this is the same intimidating leader of the Savanaclaw dorm you came to know at the beginning of the year.

He’s completely love sick for you. He hates this, but also ✨REVELS✨ IN IT. And what I mean by this is, I think “being in love” would be a bittersweet experience for Leona. He feels very deeply too DEEPLY. He's always been a sensitive guy, and eventually he will settle into a comfortable love…but after SO MANY YEARS of being alone, not just romantically, but without many close bonds OF ANY KIND, the feeling of love would make him feel sorta…sick at first. But, being the grumpy masochist we know…I think Leona would give in to this torture, become addicted to you, especially after you promise that you’re here to stay.

At night, he holds you a little too tight sometimes, but that’s because...he can’t believe you’re really here with him, and the thought of going back to how his life was before you were in it is more painful than anything.

[tommysversion]

Stick To Me (Like Caramel): Tommy Miller x F!Reader

Summary: set in the same universe as Forbidden Fruit. You don't need to read that first for this to make sense. Joel has his girl, his kids, and a life. Meanwhile, Tommy seems to be losing everything of late. After the abrupt end of his marriage, he goes in search of comfort to drown his feelings. And after years of ignoring the tension between you? That seems like a good place to start.

Content/Warnings: Past thoughts of adultery | implied age gap (not specified, can be as large or small as you'd like, but I pictured reader in her early 30s) | unsafe & unprotected PIV sex | oral sex (f!receiving) | dirty talk (Tommy has a filthy mouth) | slight daddy kink (1x usage) | implied breeding kink | slightly dark!Tommy if you squint | Reader has no description physically aside from being female bodied, feminine pronouns & body terms are used |

18+ Only || MDNI || KO-FI Link || Word Count: 2.6k

- x. -

He thinks something in him must be broken. That, or he no longer has to pretend to be something he isn't, put all that effort into pretending he and Joel aren't cut from the same damn cloth.

"You're just too much like your damn brother. Only better at pretending you're a good man."

That's what Maria had told him, before she'd tried to soften the blow by telling him he'd still see his son.

Well what the fuck was he supposed to do? Shut his brother out? He'd already been separated from Joel once before, when he'd first come to Jackson.

Then he'd almost lost him completely thanks to a total stranger with a poorly planned vendetta. God. He was never going to be more glad that Ellie and Jesse were faster with weapons than that bitch and her accomplices.

It had been touch and go for a while there, but Joel was back on his feet now. Had Ellie and Dina and Jesse and some sweet thing who usually works in the stables or the clinic. Younger, but devoted to him.

And hell, Tommy would never begrudge his brother a damn second of it. Not the kids, not the peace, not the girl. Because he knows exactly what his brother has survived, what it almost cost him.

It definitely helps push him into going after what he wants himself, though. Starting with you.

Tommy knows you're sweet on him. Knows too damn well that for the duration of his marriage he's kept his eyes and his thoughts to himself... for the most part. If he's ever, hypothetically, thought about you, and what you may sound like, taste like, feel like? Well. They're just thoughts.

Only, now, they don't have to be.

The man he was trying to be, the good one, who forgets he used to murder and steal and threaten to survive, he'd probably have words for him about crossing town - freshly reinforced, still rebuilding, a long fucking process in itself - to visit a woman far too young for him.

The man he is, though? That man tosses a friendly wave to Jesse as he passes Joel's house, sees the younger man about to go inside. Figures it must be one of those nights where Ellie, Dina, Jesse, Joel and his girl all pile into his living room for a movie.

He remembers when Joel thought he'd never get another movie night with Ellie again. Let alone Ellie, her girl, their best friend, and a woman of his own.

It puts a smile on his face as he carries on up the street til he reaches your house. He knows he had that family thing going for him, but also understands why, he thinks, Maria decided maybe he wasn't the good guy he was trying to be.

So here he is. Months later, sans wedding ring, knocking on your front door.

You take a minute to open it, dressed warmly because Jackson has a habit of always being so goddamn cold, looking relaxed in jeans and a sweater.

"Tommy." You say, like you're surprised to see him, but also like he's your favourite person in the goddamn world.

You don't use that tone with just anyone. He's observant enough to note that. Still, he gets the sense that he's a welcome sight, which he appreciates.

"Hey, sweetheart. Can I come in?"

He suddenly feels awkward. Just a little. A rush of concern that maybe he's been misreading you this entire time, that every soft glance, every little smile, every time you've served him at the bar and been just that little bit warmer than you are with most...

His thoughts are interrupted by another bright smile, by you stepping aside to let him into your home. Your house is the smallest on the street, only one single floor. You've never complained.

The entire house smells like something has been baking, he notes, as he steps around you and closes the door behind him. Cinnamon, he thinks as he follows you through into your small living room. It's cosy, a few books here and there, a record player.

One large archway opens up into the kitchen, a small hallway leading off to the guest room and bathroom. He remembers the layout from when he repaired your hot water system a few years back. Then there's the door to your room, ajar. He catches a glimpse of messy blankets before he turns his entire attention to you.

"Tommy? Are you okay?" You look up at him, your eyes focused on him; you're no medic, no doctor, but you're looking him over like you're afraid he's hurt and you want to fix him.

He doesn't think he's really able to be fixed anymore.

"Yeah." He says, then again with a little more conviction. He likes the way you're looking at him, the way your lips part slightly as you try to figure him out.

Later, he'll pinpoint this as the moment any remaining reservations vanished, but he won't be able to specifically tell anyone why.

Giving it no more thought, he closes the two steps between you, pulls you against his broad chest, leans down and crushes his lips to yours.

You make a little surprised sound but you don't stop him; instead you lean into him, wrap your arms around his neck and pull him closer. There's a small part of you that registers that this is probably wrong, he's barely separated from Maria, but god, you're so tired of waiting and wanting from a distance.

All he needs is that little sign that you want this too, then he's lifting you up into his arms, carrying you the short distance into your room.

He sets you down, tugging at your sweater just as insistantly as you pull at the red plaid shirt he's wearing, the worn tee beneath it. A low groan rumbles in his chest as you run your hands up his bare chest; he's not all solid muscle anymore, let himself get a little soft in the middle over time, but you don't care, touch him reverently regardless.

"Fuck, honey..."

He gets your sweater off, your bra, drags you into another kiss before you work on the bottom layers; your jeans and soaked panties hit the floor next, then you're pulling away from him, sprawling yourself out on your bed for him, touching yourself, spreading your own slick as he groans again.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters as he undoes his belt, pauses just a moment to watch you run your hands up your body, play with your own tits, fully aware of his gaze and the way he's transfixed by you.

He tugs his jeans down, a slight smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth as he sees the way your eyes widen, watching his cock as it springs free, hard and heavy against his stomach.

Then he's crawling onto the bed, spreading your thighs wide for him. You whimper and he grins, tugs you closer to him.

"'s it, baby, c'mere," his voice is low and thick with lust as he buries his face between your thighs, groaning the moment your slick touches his tongue. He's dreamed about this, wondered how you taste for years, even though it's been so wrong up until recently.

The part of him that's a good man still feels shameful for it, but the rest of him takes precedence, doesn't give a fuck whether he's wanted this for longer than he should have, when he was still a good married man.

His tongue circles your clit, dips into your soaked pussy, drinking down your slick and shaking his head from side to side until his beard is soaked with you, your thighs tight against his head and shaking.

"Fuck yeah, sweetheart, taste so good-" he presses a soft kiss to your clit, sucks it into his mouth again, drawing another strangled moan from your lips. "Could fuckin' drown in this pussy and be a happy man."

His cock throbs against the sheets, pre cum dripping from the fat, weeping tip of him as he sits up, wipes his chin with the back of his hand, sits back for a moment and just admires the mess he's made of you.

"Need you-" you manage to almost whimper, reaching for him. He laughs quietly as he leans down again, cages you in beneath him.

"Need me, huh? Reckon you've been needin' me for a while, huh, sweetheart?" He drags his fingers through your slick, teasing you as his lips trail kisses down your throat, nuzzle into your collarbone.

He's slow and precise and it's damn near killing him to take his time.

"Y-yeah," you admit breathlessly, tilting your head so he can kiss at your shoulders again, liking the intimacy of it.

"Yeah? Even when you couldn't have me? You been lyin' in this bed every night thinkin' of me?" He kisses your sternum, nuzzles between your breasts with a low hum as he waits for your answer.

You make a little noise of assent and he laughs, a low rumble in his chest as he slips a hand up your curves, finds a hardened nipple and plays with it, rolling it between his fingers tauntingly.

"Bet you have. Probably had no idea how much I wanted to fuck you into this bed, huh?" He leans down and bites your nipple, drawing a little squeak from you, and he laughs. "Guess that patience is about t' pay off."

His tongue laves over the bite mark as he shifts, keeps himself propped up with one hand while the other wraps around his cock, throbbing and aching in his hand. Lightly, he slaps it against your clit, a sound somewhere between a growl and a groan forming when you moan for him.

"Tha's it, baby, fuck, c'mere, come to daddy-"

He groans as he feeds you his cock, inch by inch into your tight heat; you're so warm and wet for him, your cunt trying to pull him in deeper. It's almost a relief when his hips are flush against yours, his cock snugly sheathed inside you.

"Fuck, 's so big-" you gasp out, your fingers moving to cling onto his arms, desperate for something to hold onto as you breathe, feel him stretching you open.

"Deep breaths, now, sweetheart, c'mon-" he soothes you, nuzzles his face into your neck and presses open mouthed kisses to sensitive skin until you feel less pressure, less discomfort, just wonderfully, blissfully full of him. He feels the change, feels you relax, and then he starts to move, snapping his hips into yours, hard and fast.

You don't hold back for him, your moans loud and filthy and he loves it, loves the way you claw at his back, drag your nails up and down and cling to him. Fifty five years old and he's still got it, still got the stamina and the ability to make a woman scream for him.

He can feel your pussy tightening around him, as though trying to get him deeper; he shifts, lifts one of your thighs up and presses it against your chest so he can achieve exactly that. The change in angle is rewarded by a particularly filthy moan from your lips.

"Please -"

Is the only legible word from the stream of sounds falling from you, though he thinks he hears his name amongst it, too.

"Don't worry sweetheart, I gotcha. Go on now, y' can let go whenever y' want to." His words are a little strained from the effort, from how hard he's fucking into you; some of his dark hair is falling from the messy bun he usually wears it in.

You want to reach up, to brush it from his face, but your entire body feels like it's about to shatter like glass from the way his cock slams into you; before you know it you're coming apart around him, your slick soaking his cock as you gasp for breath, choking out ragged moans as your body trembles.

"That's it, that's my girl-" he groans as he pulls out of you, letting your still fluttering cunt ache around emptiness as he turns you onto your front; you catch sight of his cock, glistening with your slick, before he has you face down, ass up.

His big hands grip your hips and pull you close, one keeping hold of you as the other guides his cock back inside you. You both give a relieved little sound as he fills you again.

The hand not at your waist moves to your chest once more, fondling your tits as he starts to move again.

"Fuck, sweetheart, got such a tight little pussy," he pulls you up so your back is against his chest as he fucks into you, the hand on your hip moving to play with your clit as he kisses your shoulder. "Could just fuckin' die here an' be a happy man, Christ -"

The hand at your chest moves up, presses two fingers into your mouth which you suck, muffling your moans as you swirl your tongue, as if sucking on his cock. Just the thought of his cock in your mouth has you drooling, and he laughs a low rumbling sound.

"Dirty girl, ain't ya? Fuck, maybe once I've filled you up, I'll make you suck my cock clean. Y' like that idea?" He feels your cunt tighten around him at the words and chuckles darkly, "yeah you fuckin' do. That what you want? Me to fuck my cum into this pretty little cunt then make you suck my cock clean?"

You whimper around his fingers and he groans, pulls them out of your mouth and tilts your head back so he can kiss you; it's sloppy and greedy and you can taste yourself on his tongue, but you cling to him because it's everything you've possibly ever wanted from him and then some.

"Alright sweetheart, here it comes, be a good girl for me, c'mon-" he groans as his hips snap up, sharp deep thrusts that have you shaking in his arms, "- take it, honey, that's it, fuuuuuccckkkk-"

The last word is drawn out as his balls tighten, his cock aching and throbbing as he spills his load inside you, deep and far more than he'd expected, hips rocking steadily until he finally stills, taking ragged breaths against your shoulder.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Tommy -" you say finally, when he lets you down against the mattress, curls his larger frame around yours and showers your sweat damp skin with kisses.

"Seen you lookin'. Don't take a genius to know what you wanted." He chuffs a laugh and nuzzles into your neck, "just hope I lived up t' your dreams, ain't polite to keep a lady waitin' long."

You suppress a snort of laughter.

"You just fucked me like an animal after I've spent years wishing you would, my tits are covered in your bite marks and I have your cum dripping down my leg. I don't see any ladies present." You smirk and then roll onto your side so you can face him. "But yeah. You definitely did."

A pause before your expression changes, becomes a little more vulnerable, guarded.

"So what happens now? We just... Pretend this never happened?"

It's his turn to laugh, shake his head as he wraps his strong, freckled arms around you.

"Never. Ain't goin' anywhere, angel. Don't you worry your pretty head about that."

And he's right. You're like nicotine to him; now he's had a taste, there's no way he's going anywhere without you.

[vettelsvee]

DON'T COMPARE YOURSELF TO OTHERS | Carlos Sainz

⋆ PAIRING: Carlos Sainz x Girlfriend!Reader ⋆ SUMMARY: Carlos is giving his everything to try being the best after his life changed by entering Williams, even that means his health might be at risk... and even when you try your best to support him every way possible ⋆ WORD COUNT: 929 ⋆ WARNINGS: Mental health issues, a bit angsty ⋆ VEE'S NOTES: Williams!Carlos fic to celebrate I got the Williams Meet & Greet with Carlos and Alex tomorrow and I'm nervous af. Hope you like this one even it's short and remember that if you liked it you can comment and reblog, and even make requests, since I'd appreciate it a lot! Thank you so much for reading! <3 Also we’re close to 2k followers so give me ideas for a fic event pls 🙏🏻 ↳ TALK TO ME/MAKE YOUR REQUESTS! | FORMULA 1 MASTERLIST

Carlos woke up that Wednesday morning around six o'clock, excited to start his training even before having breakfast.

The next Grand Prix, in Imola, was the next one in the 2025 season, his newest one with Williams. After Ferrari decided it was the best to replace him with Lewis, he was lost; however, in the upcoming months after that abrupt decision, and especially after signing with his newest team, he really believed welcoming new beginnings was meant to be.

Now, after a few months into the season, doubt and overthinking were surrounding his head all the time.

The truth was, although he found it hard to admit, the past few days had been tough on him. He didn’t take care of himself like he should. He decided to train excessively, even more than what his coaches and specialists advised him to, leading to his body starting to feel the backlash: the muscle pain he was experiencing was immense, and his body was way more tired than usual.

However, that didn't make him stop. The comparisons on the internet with his newest teammate, Alex Albon, were killing him even he tried to stay as calm as possible. Carlos knew he still had to adapt to the team; that he was, actually, adapting to the team, but some comments from people that didn’t know the truth behind it all were that gross that all the Spanish could think about was not being good enough for Formula 1.

That, maybe, it was his time to say goodbye to the sport that not only gave him life, but also he gave his life for.

When he arrived at the gym, he found you, already training to be able to go to work in the upcoming hours.

"Hey, what's wrong?" 

You quickly approached him as soon as you saw him, gently touching his arm. You didn't like the tension you noticed on Carlos’ face, but at the same time, you didn't want to intrude on his thoughts because you knew how close, shy and, moreover, ashamed, he was with everything involving sharing his deepest worries.

"I'm fine," Carlos replied curtly, although you already know it wasn't true.

You knew something was wrong no matter how much the driver insisted otherwise, so that's why, without thinking about it too much, you took a step forward and decided it was best to address the problem (or at least, try to) once and for all, with your boyfriend:

"Listen, babe…" 

You began speaking softly, while trying to approach him the best way possible so that he didn’t treat you like he was used to every time he couldn’t face his problems in conversations with others.

"I think you're training too much, and it's affecting you, physically and mentally. I hope you realize that what you're doing is not going to help you achieve better results, no matter how much you insist otherwise," you continued. “You’re more than worth, and just keeping yourself busy trying to be the best, when you might not be able to…”

"You don't understand," Carlos interrupted you with frustration. "I need to train harder if I want to win."

You sighed, understanding him but, at the same time, getting more worried at his stubbornness.

"I'm aware of how much you want to do well for Williams, really, but you can't continue punishing yourself like this. You need to take a break and listen to what your body is telling you," you said gently.

Carlos felt a bit resentful, but he knew, deep down, you were more than right. Still, he couldn't help but feel bad about himself once again because, since the beginning of the new season, and even in the past one, he had been compared to his teammates.

He didn’t want to be compared with Charles or Alex. 

He just wanted people to talk about him, for the worse or for the better.

"Maybe you're right," he finally admitted. "But I feel like what I've been doing isn't enough to be on the same line with the rest of the grid."

You approached him and, delicately, placed a hand on his shoulder.

"You can't compare yourself to others, love. You are you, Carlos Sainz, and you have your own strengths and weaknesses. So, please… try your best to just ignore the journalists, okay? You know how they are and how much they like drama…"

Carlos pondered over your words and realized that his girlfriend was right: if he continued punishing his body like that, the consequences would be more severe than they were at that moment. And he didn’t want to miss another race like he did last season when he had appendicitis.

"Thank you for telling me what I don't want to hear," Carlos said, embracing you. "As much as you love me, if you didn't manage to make me see reason, to talk to me... I don't want to know what would have happened to my head more than my body, really. I should take a break, maybe creating a new training routine, but I should discuss it with..."

You smiled, listening carefully to your boyfriend as he talked about his plans to try to silence that impostor syndrome that was eating him alive, even admitting that he might seek even more psychological help than the one he already had to manage himself better.

"I'm here to support you in everything, Carlitos," you finally answer, a huge smile on your face. "You don't have to thank me for caring about you… for making you see how much you’re worth."

[peachesanmemes]

I also recommend just using the "whole message model." Similar to these examples but all-encompassing and you can literally just checklist it once you practice it a few times. Other people respond really well to whole messages instead of partial ones.

Partial message example: You don't really want to talk to me right now do you?

Lots of implications, lots of room for misinterpretation, isn't clear what the person wants done about the situation.

Whole message example: I've noticed we haven't been talking much and your responses have felt really short. I don't think this is the best way for us to resolve the thing that happened. I feel bad when we don't talk because I care about you/our relationship. Can you tell me what made you upset so we can work on a solution together?

Works really well, the other person doesn't have to guess anything, and they know plainly what you would like to see happen.

The whole message model also works for good things!

Happy example: You've really been picking up the slack for the team this week! It's really helping us all be more efficient and keep things running smoothly. I'm really glad we have you on the team, I feel better knowing you're around. :) I hope you know how meaningful your contributions are and I'd love to hear if there's ever any support you need from me.

I hate that thing some people do where it's like. "I left my wallet on the table to see if you'd say anything" or "I wanted to see if you'd wash the car if I stopped doing it"

Cause like

I dont know about anyone else

But I am perpetually hovering three inches above the strong subconscious belief that everyone knows what they're doing at all times except me, so if you change your normal patterns and I notice, then I will assume it is an intentional choice with a thought-out plan behind it and I will avoid interfering

And if I don't notice, because I won't, because why would I, because not much bothers me and if you don't say anything to indicate you are bothered then how would I KNOW

[shen-jius-zoloft-prescription]

Shang Qinghua is a man who knows to keep a burner phone on an inside pocket where it won't be found and pulled off him. What does he look like, an amateur? And sure, burner phones don't exist technically in PIDW, but you think he didn't bake in a way to make an alternative?

Again: the man's not an amateur.

Shang Qinghua is a man who knows how to twist his arms from behind himself, in immortal binding cables, to grab that burner phone emergency talisman sewn into the hem of his sleeve. Shang Qinghua is a man who remembers the important phone numbers qi signatures by heart, and can definitely, easily place a phone call tear the necessary sigil on the talisman while tied up in a car trunk storage crate on a wagon, thank you very much.

And once upon a time, it mattered that Shang Qinghua is a man who knows how to open a car trunk from the inside, but storage crates don't come with safety regulation mandated release levers in Proud Immortal Demon Way.

Well, he'd be insulted if they didn't take him seriously enough to make it difficult for him. But still. Ugh.

There are less scorched-earth ways to go about this, but he's a bit peeved by the whole thing, and honestly? It might be good to remind people that he shouldn't be fucked with.

Obviously he can't tip his hand too far, being a pathetic little worm beneath anyone's notice is half of what normally keeps him out of situations like this, so he needs someone else to be the threat while Shang Qinghua still gets the "don't mess with him" effect of it.

So, anyway, he rings Shen Yuan.

Hey, bro, I've been kidnapped, by humans so I don't want to get my king involved, and — no, it's not a joke, listen — there really isn't time to play this with his best friend/built-in alibi, the talisman has a very limited duration with his qi cabled off, so he cuts to the chase.

There's a box under his bed in the Leisure House. He tells Shen Yuan to go get it. He knows Shen Yuan is a smart guy, but he's not exactly the right person when it comes to... well, what he'd be asking of him.

So he tells Shen Yuan, with the last percent of battery wisp of stored qi in the talisman, to take that box to his brother. It's a pretty random request; it's not like Shang Qinghua has anything to do with the Qing Jing peak lord ever, at all, if he can ever help it. Normally, Shen Yuan would just roll his eyes and shrug it off (and leave Shang Qinghua to his kidnappers, not that he'd notice his best friend was actually gone for at least a couple more days) but the whole thing's just weird enough that it piques his curiosity. He makes a brief call to his brother on his summoning pendant, more like a psychic tap on the shoulder.

Of course that's all it takes for Shen Jiu to drop everything he's doing immediately, and the peak lord goes to Shen Yuan faster than an ambulance. He's... unimpressed that the actual reason for his class's interruption is anything to do with Shang Qinghua.

But, dutifully, Shen Yuan hands Shen Jiu the box.

It's got scrolls and papers and folios on every important, influential, wealthy, powerful, superlative-adjective person in the jianghu and mortal spheres. It's all the dirt. On everyone. Criminal activity (mindfully scrubbed of any Airplane-shaped involvements), affairs, embezzlement, the works. From casual lies caught on tape, to life-ruining scandals in 4k.

Everyone important's dirty laundry. And, for good measure, it's also everyone important's loved ones' dirty laundry, too.

Shen Yuan realizes immediately that he might as well have just handed Shen Jiu nuclear codes. This is, decidedly and without a doubt, the absolute worst person in the world to have this information! What the fuck, Airplane-bro?!

There is a sticky note scrap of paper adhered on top of the box:

In case of emergency!

(ﾉ*ФωФ)ﾉ Give them two days to comply.

(less if they're annoying lol)

It does not matter who kidnapped Shang Qinghua.

Because whoever they are, they are assuredly in that box, and they, and everyone they know, and everyone they work with, and everyone they love are about to have their whole worlds torn apart.

As soon as it gets out that Shen Qingqiu has any kind of access to any amount of this information (and it's fairly immediate for Shen Jiu to buy into whatever fucked up game is going on and "let it slip," and if there's anything that every single sect of the jianghu excels at equally, it's gossip that can move faster than the speed of light), the best anyone can hope for is that he does the responsible thing and gives it to Yue Qingyuan; there is no heaven to save you if he decides to use it himself.

Just like that, everyone who suspects they might be in Shang Qinghua's nightmarish Burn Book is immediately joining in on the planet's scummiest, most self-serving volunteer search party team.

(The kidnappers themselves are, of course, scrambling to comply with demands.)

Shang Qinghua is dropped off, still tied, in an alley in a distant city of the borderlands with a bag over his head, only aware of the mayhem inflicted by his box of receipts by virtue of the frantic arguing he overheard from his kidnappers whilst rattling around like a loose coin in the car trunk storage container.

It's not until the next day that Shang Qinghua is back on An Ding and Shen Jiu returns the box.

Shang Qinghua is a man who knows his own damn handwriting, can tell when he's looking at a box full of copies.

[yoongihan]

Services Rendered - BC - 2/3

pairing: escort chan x femreader

genre: smut, with little plot, a lot of talking, fluffy, but there be angst in this part

word count: ~ 13.5k

warnings: sex work, smut: pentrative safe sex, hand jobs (both rec.), oral (both receiving) ; a lot of kissing, older reader, chan goes by chris, reader shorter than chris, many more 'babys' and 'yeonins' because it's chris, the most ethical escort service ever; alcohol imbibed, but no one's drunk, more discussion of insecurities on reader's part, cursing. if i've missed something, let me know.

rating: 18+/M

summary: seeking a solution to your lack of experience, you assume the process will be business-like. you're entirely wrong.

a/n: I AM SO SORRY THIS HAS TAKEN SO LONG. i swear i thought it'd take a couple weeks and i started it right after posting the first part. i don't think the final part will take as long (she says while packing her apartment to move states literally next week). thank you so much for the kind reception of the first part. there's some book discussion in this part, those books belong to their authors. i hope you enjoy it. big thank you to @moni-logues for reading this over and making sure it actually makes sense.

part one

Part Two

You wake up at some point, way too early. The sleepy realization that you aren’t in your own bedroom gives a moment of panic, but it subsides. You also realize that you aren’t currently the little spoon, or any spoon at all. There’s another irrational moment of panic, this one about him, that he’s left, that he’s gone. 

You roll as gingerly as one can toward the other side of the bed, which reveals a head of messy hair and a peek of bare shoulders. Had he ditched his pajama shirt sometime in the middle of the night? Does it matter?

Your heart rate slows though. He’s still there. 

You turn back toward the nightstand and the bright digital numbers that tell you that you are up well before any person needs to be. You get out of bed, standing to walk to the bathroom. As you do, you realize that you are sore. It’s a stupid thought, honestly. Of course you’re sore, but still, it’s surprising, and unnerving. You’re sore because you’ve had sex. 

You had sex.

You shut the door to the bathroom before you turn on the light and once you do, you nearly audibly groan at what the mirror shows. Bedraggled. The last vestiges of your makeup are smeared (even though there wasn’t that much to begin with), eyes a bit bloodshot, hair a disaster. 

You wash your face thoroughly and pat it dry. You also decide to brush your teeth. You’re not convinced a stunning specimen like Chris would even have morning breath, but you definitely do, and maybe even if you sleep a few more hours, this will mitigate the worst of it. 

When you return to bed, he hasn’t moved at all. You slide in, staring at the back of his head, wondering about the course of today. 

Will it be a sex-fest? You doubt it because you hardly think you have the stamina, even if he’s studied tantric or whatever. 

Will it be awkward? Possibly. You’ve had only a handful of waking hours with him. What will happen when there are long, non-seducing hours? Conversation had been fine last night, but this is so much time. 

Will it be claustrophobic? The hotel room is yours until twenty-four hours plus from now. That doesn’t mean you can’t leave the hotel, but does an escort want to be seen in public with his less than perfect-looking client? Does he want to be seen with you, as though you’re a couple?

You shake your head, closing your eyes despite wanting to reach out and trace your fingers along those bare shoulders. You don’t know how much time passes; you don’t think that you really fall back asleep, but you do doze some. A pleasant dreamy fog of rest, mixed up with memories of the previous evening: a pull of emotions and impressions. 

When you come back to this plane of existence, you can feel lips on your shoulder. 

“Chris?”

“You expecting someone else?” His voice is deep from sleep and glazed with amusement. You rub your eyes, by the nightstand clock you can see that a couple hours have passed since your first wake up. There’s a lazy bite on your shoulder, you shiver before tentatively rolling over to see him. 

The wild hair, the barely-open eyes, the flushed skin. 

God, he’s so beautiful. 

“Hi,” you say for lack of anything creative. “Good morning.” His head tilts to the side and sniffs once. 

“You brushed your teeth,” he accuses as he covers his mouth with his hand. “That’s hardly fair.” He starts to pull back the covers, as though to leave the bed. 

“It’s not a big deal–”

“Nope,” he interrupts, laughing as he slides to his feet and heads to the bathroom. “We have to be the same here. Equality, right?” He winks at you before entering, the door shutting behind him. 

You sigh, embarrassed now for NOT having morning breath, before forcing yourself to sit up, back resting on the headboard. You touch your hair to make sure it’s not too crazy. 

When the door opens, not more than a minute or two later, you’re already back to feeling horribly anxious at what the day will bring. He walks to your side, looking down at you. 

“Equal now?” you ask softly. 

He sets his knee on the bed, gracefully climbing on without even touching you, enclosing you with his presence. You stare up at him, swallowing as your throat feels dry. He doesn’t say anything, his eyes sparkling. He leans in, his hands pressed into the mattress at your sides. His lips find yours, a minty burst. It’s biting, the mint, but his mouth and tongue are soft and warm. It’s like sinking into a hot bath. 

“Morning,” he murmurs, lips barely a millimeter from yours. He goes back in, drawing it out, making you sit up higher, your hands encircling him by the neck to keep him close. When he breaks for air, he lets his nose bump yours before sitting back on his heels. “Sleep okay?”

You’re muddled from his kiss, brain slow to engage. “Mmmhmm.” You move again to kiss him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. You can tell he’s grinning when your lips meet his, but you slip your tongue in his mouth, curling with his. He groans, reaching to pull you on top of him instead. His hands slide along your legs to your hips, gripping tightly as you continue to taste him. It’s relaxed this morning, the tangling of your bodies. He seems not inclined to speed up, rubbing his hand up and down your back, almost in rhythm to the kiss. It’s so engrossing, being wrapped up in him, that you don’t even question when your hips start to rock against his. 

Well, the stuff you’ve heard and read about morning wood certainly is true. He groans when you thrust just right; you echo his groan, barely audible since detaching from his mouth seems wrong. 

He breathes your name against your mouth. “Hold on.”

The words eventually make themselves recognizable in your mind and you break away. “You don’t…want to…I thought guys were always up for it in the morning?”

“Oh, I am. We are,” he says quickly, as though he realizes that you’re beginning to feel ashamed by your assumptions and zeal. “But you might be sore? A little? And it’s by no means required.” He cups your face in his hands before you look and dart away. “Talk to me.”

“A little sore.”

“Thought so.” He kisses you softly, nose brushing yours before letting his head fall back on the headboard. “Breakfast?”

It’s difficult to switch from desire for him to considering desire for food. “I mean, we can do room service.”

His fingers trace along your ears before dropping to his lap. “Let’s go out. Do you like diner food?”

“I wouldn’t trust someone who doesn’t.”

He laughs, reaching out and squeezing your thigh. “That does seem like a good litmus test.” He stares at you for a second. “Want me to shower first?”

You nod slowly as you roll off his legs, sitting back against the headboard next to him. “You want to go out?”

He looks over at you, still comfortable on the bed in the twisted sheets. “Supposed to be a nice day. I figure, good breakfast, maybe we go to the park…” He trails off at your expression. “Do you not want to?”

“No, that…that sounds nice,” you mumble, eyes falling to your hands, folding back the sheet like that will make order out of chaos. 

He leans over, mouth at your ear. “Did you think it would be sex 24/7?” His whisper and breath on the sensitive skin makes you tremble. 

“I both thought too much and not enough about this weekend.”

“Meaning?”

“I worried, but tried not to imagine what scenarios might happen. I didn’t think you’d…” When you look over at him, he gives you a questioning look. “Never mind.”

“Nope, you promised to tell me. What you’re thinking.”

“That’s still in effect? I think you mastered getting my brain mushy and senseless.”

He chuckles, hand grasping your chin to turn you to him for a kiss. He lingers, enough to make you want all over again. 

“Tell me?”

You want to look anywhere but at him, but his hold on you is firm. “I wasn’t sure going out like a date was something we could do.”

He stares at you for more seconds than you wish he would. “Sometimes I’m hired as a date for events.”

You suppose if you’d given yourself a moment to think about anything you know about sex work (specifically from films and books), you would have remembered that. Hopefully no one would blame you for focusing solely on the ‘sex’ part of the occupation. 

“Right.”

He kisses you again. “You’re worried about something.”

“Do you want to be seen with me? In public?” Might as well just ask. He already knows you’re insecure about things.

“Why wouldn’t I?” he counters, fingers skimming your jaw and cheek. 

“I’m older than you.”

“I know.”

With as insightful as he’s been already, you hoped you wouldn’t have to spell it out for him, but apparently he’s making you do that anyway.

“You don’t mind being seen with me? Even though I’m…”

He kisses you for a millionth time. “A couple things. I chose to take this job. With you. That includes being seen with you. Also…” He shakes his head. “I feel like I should make you say another positive thing about yourself.” He lets his hand glide down your neck, a caress. 

“Chris…” You think for a moment before continuing, “I don’t think I’m disgusting or repulsive. I really don’t. I just know how the world sees me. And my good qualities…” He grins when you smile. “Don’t seem as admired by society as the qualities I lack. It’s not low self-esteem, but a realistic understanding of the world?”

“That seems a little like justification for not thinking you’re beautiful. And you are.”

You can’t help your immediate grimace at the compliment. 

“See?”

“Sorry, sorry. It’s…I don’t trust compliments about how I look.”

“From anybody or from men?”

Insightful as fuck.

You sigh. “Why ask when you seem to already know?”

His thumb traces along your collarbone as he answers: “I like to make sure my assumptions aren’t completely off.” He takes a moment, his touch lackadaisical. “So, breakfast…out?”

“Yes. If you’re sure.”

He rolls his eyes before cupping the back of your neck to kiss you. “Yes. I’m sure.” And he gets up to walk back into the bathroom. He doesn’t close the door and you open your mouth to question, but he pops his head out. “Feel free to come in if you need to. I’m not shy.” He winks and disappears. 

Yeah, you’re not doing that. Sex is one thing (a thing you’re still processing), but domestic daily acts together? That’s a level of intimacy you can’t fathom. 

You are combing through your luggage for something to wear when he comes out of the bathroom…in only a towel.

“All yours,” he says, going to his own bag to find clothes. 

You stare, which is silly, because you’ve already seen him two seconds ago with only pajama pants on. It’s the same thing, right?

It’s not. The towel leaves less to the imagination, and the scattered drops of water catching the light on his torso heighten your awareness. 

He glances over at you when you don’t respond, or even move. He smirks. 

You scoff, embarrassed. “You know you’re hot,” you retort when you grab your clothes and move toward the bathroom. He catches you by the arm, pulling you close. 

“Thank you,” he says softly, nose to nose with you. His fingers caress your forearm as he lets go and you mutter a ‘you’re welcome’ as you dash into the bathroom, shutting the door behind. 

–

“Is that enough meat?” you ask, not in a judgemental tone, but more in astonishment. He grins cheekily across from you in the booth. 

“I told you. I’d share if you got the pancakes.”

“I know, but…” You gesture to his plate with toast, eggs, and enough bacon and sausage for the carnivore in anyone. “It’s…impressive. Thank you. I really do hate choosing between sweet and savoury for breakfast.” You set pancakes on the spare plate. 

“Well,” he begins, setting some of his protein on your plate. “I did use up a lot of energy last night.”

You don’t have to look at him to hear the amusement and know he’s smirking again at you. 

He says your name plaintively when you don’t look up or comment. 

“I think you just like embarrassing me.”

“I think you’re cute like this.” He points at you with a fork. “You’re cute always, but especially right now.”

The meal is mostly devoured in quiet as you are hungry (you expended energy, too, after all), but you find out that Chris loves working out, playing sports with his friends, going to concerts, and cooking.

“I’m not good,” he assures you about cooking. “I’m not awful, but I’m not going to impress anyone.”

“But cooking is a skill. There are people who pretty much order out for every meal. Minus like cereal and sandwiches.”

“I still do that…sometimes.”

You laugh at his sheepish expression. “I do too. Some days after work, I’m too tired to even think about making something. It’s enough to decide what I even want to eat.”

He nods. “Understandable.” He puts another piece of bacon on your plate even though you’ve definitely eaten your quota of food for the morning. “Do you like what you do?”

“Work-wise? I guess. It’s enough for now. I can do the job, some days I feel like I do it well. But I wouldn’t say it fulfills me. Helps me pay the bills.”

“Is that okay?”

You startle when you stretch out your legs and hit his. “Sorry.”

“S’okay,” he replies simply before hooking his foot around yours at the ankle. His eyebrows lift at your expression, like he’s daring you to make a scene. “Is it okay to not be fulfilled by your job?”

“I…” His foot is rubbing your calf and it shouldn’t be stimulating, but my god, it is stimulating. “Well, are you?”

“Fulfilled?” He cocks his head to the side, thinking. “Sometimes. Sometimes I feel like I’ve done well.”

“This job?” you ask, swallowing before grabbing your mug of coffee. Chris, with another very unique trait, doesn’t drink coffee and is having orange juice. “Your…current work?”

“Yeah,” he says, eyes warm. “This job.”

“I mean…not the acting, not like specifically…a…client…but your work overall…”

He leans closer, despite the table in the way. “I know what you mean.” He waves down the server and hands her a credit card before you can even get your wallet out of your purse. 

“You…”

“My treat.” 

“Tax-deductible?”

He laughs. “Sure. Something like that.” 

You finish your coffee by the time he’s signed the check. He slips his hand in yours (he’d done the same on the walk from the hotel to the diner) and leads you back outside. 

“Anything you wanna do?” he asks. “There’s a park a few blocks away. Some shops if you’re so inclined.” 

“Is this okay?” you ask. “Us just…hanging out?”

He watches you while you both wait at a crosswalk. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I don’t know. I…I feel like I might be wasting your time.”

He squeezes your hand. “I don’t feel like that. You said that you don’t take time off from work a lot.”

“I did?”

“In your interview. I figure this can be about some relaxation as well as…other activities.” 

“I don’t want you to be bored.”

“I don’t want you to be bored either.” He gestures toward the sign that announces that you’ve arrived at the city park. “But…there’s fresh air, trees, and a used bookstore all within a couple blocks.”

“A used bookstore?”

He grins at the delight in your voice. “Fresh air first.”

It’s a nice park. People are out on a clement Saturday, walking their dogs, playing frisbee, and having picnics. Chris leads a meandering pace, stopping to pet dogs whenever the opportunity arises. You also indulge scratching behind the ears for several, getting licked and jumped on. You don’t want to think about the dusty paw prints left on your pants, just Chris’s big smile and laugh when he falls from a squat position because the golden retriever is a little too excited. 

He’s still chuckling when you offer your hand to him (the excitable dog and his owners have already moved on). He takes it and you brace your feet to pull him up. He brushes himself off, and before you can overthink it, you do the same, wiping the stray dirt from his t-shirt. He grabs your hand after a moment, lifting it up and kissing it softly.

“Thanks.”

You want to ask if he’s the top employee at his company. How could he not be, with warm eyes looking at you like you matter. How can any client go back to their real life after time spent with him? 

It’s a dream. A dream that you made happen, but still a dream.

“You’re a dog person,” you reply to his gratitude, trying to move his focus off of you. 

“I am.” He doesn't let go of your hand, but draws you toward a bench. You sit next to him, clasped hands on his thigh as he looks out at the people milling about, dogs chasing sticks. “My folks have a dog, but my life is so busy that I can’t have one now. Maybe someday.”

“That sounds nice.” You stare at his profile for a few seconds. “Dog, house, white picket fence?”

He laughs. “Yeah, maybe. I don’t know about the fence. What’s your ‘someday’? Your job sounds pretty involved.” He glances at you. 

“It’s silly.”

“Is it?”

“I mean, what I want.”

“Lies.”

You take a deep breath and turn your focus on the trees. “I want a quiet life. Sure, I’d still work, but it’s mostly at home. I have a small garden where I grow things that end up on my table. The idea that what I put effort into actually is something that benefits me tangibly. Instead of just a paycheck.”

“Don’t insult the paycheck.”

“Everything I work with is conceptual, you know? I can’t touch it, see it. It’s documents and meetings, and something posted on the internet. There’s nothing to hold.” 

“Makes sense. I like traveling, but it’d be nice to have more than a tiny apartment to come home to.” He squeezes your hand. “Want some ice cream?”

You look around, confused.

“It’s behind those trees,” he says, pointing. “Stay here, I’ll go get it. What’s your favorite flavor?”

“Surprise me.”

His eyebrows rise. “That’s a lot of pressure to put on me,” he says, before leaning close. “You trust me?”

“You seem to have me pretty figured out already.”

His brow furrows. “I doubt that.” He’s so close with his unsure expression, it’s cute. You cover the remaining distance and kiss him softly. He returns it, light and breezy. “See…I didn’t know you’d do that.”

You grin at him. “That’s because you can’t see what I see.”

The blush growing on his cheeks makes him all the more endearing. “Smooth talker,” he mumbles before kissing you again and getting up. You watch him go before looking back out at the activity. 

You can’t remember the last time you sat somewhere and people watched, without taking out your phone either to scroll or work. It’s calming. Chris, his very presence reminding you why he’s here, sets your nerves alight. In all the good and anxious ways. You worry so much about what you say or do, that in this moment, it’s nice to just be. 

“I got two that I like, so whichever one you prefer, I’m good with the reject.”

You startle at his voice, intently watching the final outcome of a boy, about ten years old, in a tug-of-war with his beagle. 

“What did you get?”

“Chocolate peanut butter, and mango sorbet.” He carefully sits next to you, a cone of melting goodness in each hand. 

“They both sound good, but I'm leaning toward mango.”

“Interesting decision,” he says, handing over the bright yellow-orange swirl. 

You take a lick of it, closing your eyes to enjoy the burst of flavor before responding to his words. “Is it? Is there some psychological diagnosis about me choosing fruit over chocolate?”

“Possibly,” he replies, leaning against the back of the bench, staring out at the clearing, still inhabited by people, dogs, and activity. “Are you denying what you really want due to some social concern that you can’t have the thing you desire?” He raises an eyebrow when you laugh. “Are you assuming I would rather have chocolate and you are appeasing me over having the thing you want the most?”

“Maybe mango sounds better than chocolate right now.”

He scrunches his nose. “Unlikely.”

You laugh again at his mocking disbelief before enjoying several more bites of the sorbet. “Did you study psychology or sociology in school?”

“Neither. There was a gen ed intro class I had to take. It was cool.” He offers his cone to you. “You have to try it, to know if you made the right choice.”

The familiarity of sharing ice cream with someone you met yesterday is not lost on you; how strange this entire experience is. So you lean over to taste and it is really good. You offer your cone. 

“Equality, right?”

He chuckles and tries the mango. 

“I don’t regret my choice,” you say when he goes quiet, either pondering psychology classes or chocolate over mango. 

“Hmmm,” is all he gives you. “I can’t complain. This is really good.” 

You smile at his apparent glee for ice cream, and how the sun shines on his face, highlighting his skin, casting shadows of his eyelashes on his cheeks. 

The smear of chocolate by his lips. 

“You…you have…,” you begin, gesturing to the mark. 

He doesn’t look embarrassed, but leans toward you. “Can you get it?” 

You wipe it with your thumb, offering the remnants to him without much thought. Then you see his eyes spark when his lips touch your skin. There’s a light scraping of his teeth and the ice cream feels less like an enjoyable dessert and more like a precursor to something else. 

When he draws back, your eyes are glued to his mouth, your thumb still proffered in supplication as you’re frozen.

“It’s melting,” he says softly, nodding toward your ice cream cone. You blink and focus  on the sorbet, eyes straying back toward him after a little bit. “So…do you want to go to the bookstore after this?”

Your thoughts are definitely not on books, or shopping, or anything public. You don’t answer, unable to figure out how to say what you want. 

He says your name, drawing your gaze from what’s left of your sorbet to him. Does he know? Can he tell?

“I don’t want to go to the bookstore.”

His eyebrows raise. “No? Um, there’s…” He pulls out his phone, you assume, to look up what’s around. “There’s a farmer’s market several blocks away. And–”

“Chris…

He glances over. “Yeah?”

You take a deep breath, channeling whatever confidence you have in everything but sex. “I’d like to go back to the hotel.” The confidence lasts just the duration of the sentence, and you look away immediately.

“Yeah? Why?”

Your head turns so fast, because you can’t believe he might be oblivious, not after last night, but he’s grinning widely at you, those beautiful brown eyes heated. 

“You like making me spell things out, don’t you?”

“I do. I like how flustered you are about the very reason you hired me.” He stands up, waiting for you to do the same. “We can finish on the way.” 

He chats the whole way back about when he was growing up in Sydney, but you can’t really focus on his actual words. Just the rolling sound of his voice, the accent in full effect. You’re thinking too much, as per usual. Worried, as usual, about how you’ll perform. It doesn’t seem to matter that everything last night went way better than you could have hoped or imagined. Your brain doesn’t allow you to relax, to take in the evidence that you can ask for this, that he might want to even if it is why you hired him. 

When you two are waiting for the hotel elevator, ice cream wrappers discarded in a street bin, he bumps shoulders with you. 

“Where’d you go?” 

“Into the twisted, thorny mire that is my brain.” 

He laughs and kisses you without warning. It’s almost perfunctory, natural and domestic. “Your brain sounds like the part of the Sleeping Beauty cartoon, where the prince has to hack his way through the huge vines into the castle.”

“That. With no castle or end in sight. And probably a bit grimier.” 

The elevator doors open and you both enter as he is still chuckling at your description. “Grimier?”

“Yes. The cartoon seems too clean, you know? That much plant life would be dirty with soil and insects, and that mossy loamy smell.” You lean back against the elevator wall as the doors close. “Maybe swampy too.”

He’s still grinning when he turns toward you, lips finding yours in half a laugh. The relative privacy allows you the freedom to slide your hands around his middle, pulling him close. He’s cosily warm; the ice cream has left you a little cold and his natural temperature banishes that chill. He deepens the kiss, his tongue tantalizing. Your head falls back against the wall as the elevator dings to announce its arrival to your floor. He pulls away, hand slipping into yours to drag you toward the long hallway. 

It feels both interminably long in distance as you stumble after him, but also short because…sex…again. With him.

How does most of the world’s population consider sex to be a normal (albeit enjoyable) thing?

Once you’re both inside the hotel room, he looks at you with that raised eyebrow. 

“What?” you ask, wishing your missing boldness would not be missing. 

“I’m half-wanting you to just pounce, I guess.”

His smile softens the sharpness of your nerves. 

“Just half?”

He moves close, not touching you, waiting. “More than half…what’s got you looking so wide-eyed?”

“Nervous.”

“Why?” At this, his hand comes to your cheek, careful. 

“I guess I thought, you know, having sex once would make me less awkward about it.”

His eyes soften. “Once would make you a sex goddess?”

You make a face at the absurdity. “I didn’t say my thoughts made logical sense.”

His hand molds to your cheek and jaw. “It’s okay to still be nervous. And it’s okay to be awkward.”

You know you’re pouting, but you can’t help it. “I just…I want to…enjoy and for you to enjoy.” Your face heats at that last part. 

He dips his head so you can’t look anywhere but at him. “I do. I will. And I’ll tell you if I’m not and we’ll try something else.” His thumb pulls lightly at your bottom lip. “Trust me?” 

“I do…” If you think too deeply about it, it’ll worry you how much you trust and admire this man, after less than twenty-four hours of knowing him. “Really, I do. It’s more me, than you.”

He lets his lips brush yours delicately, as if inviting you to make the decision to add pressure and intensity. It’s so lovely, like the touch of a rose petal. You cover his hand on your cheek with yours and lean in, prolonging the kiss. His arm curls around you, pulling you flush against him. Using his hold on your face, he angles your head, shifting from a quiet kiss to hot and wet and shiver-inducing. 

“Wanna try something new?” he whispers, lips still touching yours with the question. 

“Um…”

He draws back, still holding you because he rightly knows you might try and run away. 

“Like…?” 

He bumps noses with you, teasing. “I have a feeling you already know what you want to try.”

Your eyes narrow. “Why do you make me say everything?”

“Cause you need to. So it’s clear,” he replies, unbothered by your frustration. “It gives you the power. This is your weekend, baby.” He dives back in, the kiss as stubborn as he is. You melt against him, wishing you could be absorbed by his heat and scent. “What do you want?” It’s as though he addles your brain on purpose, just to ask questions like that. 

“Orgasm,” you breathe.

“Sure. How?” His head drops to suck a mark on your neck, making your fingers dig into his arms. “You can say it.”

“Your mouth.”

He lifts his head. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Never mind that you know you’re flushed from saying it. “Do…you…mind it?”

The smirk is devastating. “If someone…in your future, tells you they don’t want to…dump that person. Immediately.” He maneuvers you to the bed, chuckling at your inability to walk normally. He sits you down, so your feet are planted on the floor. 

“You’re overestimating my dating life,” you finally say. 

He cocks his head to the side, regarding you before dropping to his knees. You swallow, hard. 

“I think, if you truly wanted to date, you could. Successfully.”

“Have you met people, Chris?”

He laughs, resting then sliding his hands along your thighs. “I have and I stand by what I said.” He presses one kiss on your knee before starting to undo the button and zipper of your shorts. “Why wouldn’t someone want to date you?”

You’re so focused on where his hands are, how he’s slipping off your shoes and socks. He massages your calves idly, like he’s barely thinking about it before tugging off your shorts. 

He says your name when you don’t reply. 

“I’m not answering that,” you breathe out as his hands map your legs.  “It’s like you asking for me to say something nice about myself yesterday.” 

“Lay back, baby,” he says, rising up on his knees to kiss you softly. “We’re back to the color system, okay? Red if it’s too much, or not good. Or if you don’t feel safe. Yellow to slow down, or change. Green if you’re out of your mind with pleasure.” His smirk makes your eyes narrow in mock-annoyance. “I really want it to be green.”

He kisses your bare knee before trailing his lips up along your inner thigh. 

“Yeonin?”

You make some sound in response. 

“You gotta relax.” You feel him cover your hand which is clenched tightly in a fist (you didn’t even notice) and carefully undo the curling of each finger. “You’re supposed to enjoy it.” He has that amused thread in his voice. 

“I do. I am.”

His fingers slot with yours. “Deep breath.”

You do as he instructs, and your muscles relax with the exhale.

“Good girl.”

Oh.

“Hmmm, I figured,” he says softly, lips back on the inside of your thigh. There’s a nip and a soothing touch of tongue. As he gets closer, you try not to squirm, but it’s impossible. He lets go of your hand to hold your hip down. “Easy.” Then you feel his mouth on the gusset of your underwear.

The noise you let out is humiliating, but you cannot be appalled at yourself because holy shit. He chuckles, and you can feel the vibrations in your core. He hooks a finger on the fabric, his finger brushing your swollen and sensitive and wanting cunt. You whine as he pulls the clothing down your legs and off. His hands slide back up your thighs, thumbs barely brushing you there.

“Chris,” the whine is more pronounced. “Please.”

“So polite,” he says, his breath fanning out on your clitoris. It feels like an eternity, his fingers digging into your skin, breath heating then cooling, before you feel his mouth. You’d levitate if his hand wasn’t so firm on your hip, keeping you on the bed. A slow lick, excruciatingly slow. He hums, sending vibrations again, this time more intense before his lips enclose over your clit and he sucks. 

You are forming words, you think, but you might be nonsense as well. There’s ‘Chris’ and ‘More’. 

“As you wish,” he answers one of those ‘more please’s with that low voice, full of provocation and fondness. His fingers, first one then a second, slip in, curling up and proving how much attention he pays as he finds the exact spot. You shudder and his fingers retreat; this time you whimper.

“Not so fast, baby. It needs to build for a bit.” His explanation in no way makes you not wordlessly complain the next two times he does the same thing. He checks in with you, asking for your color, and saying the word ‘green’ is its own kind of torture as breathing is challenging. Your hand is in his hair, twisting, tightening. He’s laughing, but when you raise your head to actually see him, his eyes are black, pupils blown out, and you’re sure the image of him looking at you while giving you oral will be seared in your brain for fifty years. 

Then he doesn’t back off or relent and you are sent beyond this mortal plane, the experience not old hat to you, the pleasure prolonged as he continues until you come back to yourself, breathing heavy and fingers releasing their grip on his tousled hair. He lifts his head, hand patting your thigh and wiping his mouth with the back of his other hand. When you stare at him, unable to speak, he climbs onto the bed to lay next to you. 

“Verdict?” he asks softly. You pull him to you, kissing him messily, trying to rid him of his shirt at the same time. He obliges, tossing his shirt to the floor before cupping your face in his hands to kiss you deeply, apparently not in a hurry like you seem to be. 

“Good,” you finally speak, breath somewhat back to normal. “So good, god, Chris…” You don’t know what to say, how to phrase how much this means to you: to be given pleasure so freely, that he cares enough to get you off with no expectation of reciprocity. 

But you want to reciprocate. You start to undo his jeans, and you don’t notice that he’s only smoothing your hair, pressing soft kisses on your cheek, forehead. 

“You always want to rush,” he murmurs as you shove down both jeans and his underwear. It’s not a protest, his dick definitely isn’t saying no, but you look up at him even as you take him in hand. 

You want to say that time is limited. That it’s less than 24 hours till he leaves, a part of that has to be dedicated to some sleep as you can’t function properly to get yourself home if you don’t. You have to rush because you don’t have any guarantee that you’ll get to experience this again.

And not with him.

So you say nothing, denying a realization of feelings that are better looked at tomorrow, when you’re on your own. 

“Can you get a condom?” he asks, his voice strained as you explore his length, intrigued by how hot it is, how delicate the skin, and how stiff. “Please?”

You meet his eyes with your own smirk. “Now who’s being polite?”

His lips twist. “I’m always polite.” And he gives your nose a peck. You ignore the flutter of your heart at such a small gesture, letting go of him to grab a foil packet from the box. You roll it on him, squeezing carefully. 

“That okay? Green?”

He huffs a laugh, face flushed and glowing with light perspiration. “Green.” He wraps his hand around yours and starts to press the head to your entrance. 

“Like this?” you ask, not sure why side by side, facing each other is shocking to you. Sex always seems like one person is above, the other below. There’s something even more intimate about this.

“Yes?” He smiles. “Okay?”

You nod as he slips in, your earlier orgasm allowing the breach much easier than last night. You clench instinctively and he slides a hand down your side to your leg, lifting it so it’s slung over his. The angle changes and you gasp.

“Better?” He tips your chin up to capture your lips again as he draws back to thrust. You grip his shoulders, lost in the feeling of his cock moving against your walls, the rhythm of his tongue with yours. You don’t think (not much anyway), drowning in the sensations of heat, sweat, sharp inhales and exhales. He whispers compliments, words you don’t really comprehend, but with his accent, the timbre, you think it’s poetry. 

His fingers bring you to completion before he lets go and comes himself.

Chris props himself up on one elbow once you both get your breath back. He’s giving you that sleepy grin, self-satisfied (you can’t be mad at him…he should feel satisfied) and content. He moves a piece of your hair out of your eyes. 

“Still green?”

You snort then laugh. “Yeah, if I had strength I’d give you a high-five.”

He holds up his hand and with effort you smack it, making him giggle. “That’s a first for me.”

“Never been high-fived?”

“Not after sex.”

“Pity.”

He falls to the mattress next to you, eyes never leaving you. You stare back, breathing mostly normal now. 

“It was good for you, too?”

He raises an eyebrow. “You aren’t sure?” He scoots closer, nuzzling your shoulder, leaving a kiss. 

“I mean, it sounded like it was good. But…I guess I want verbal confirmation.” 

He moves even closer so your faces are inches apart. “Yes. It was great even.” He kisses you without heat, only sweetness. He rolls to his back, looking up at the ceiling. “It’s early.” He glances at the nightstand clock then at you. “Any thoughts on how we can while away the hours until dinner?”

There’s nothing to hint mischief in his voice, but you still think he might be angling for more of something. You want to, but you’re also a little shaken by what’s just occurred. That he wanted to, did, and did so with skill. 

“You did say there was a bookshop?”

If he’s disappointed, you can’t see it in his face. “To add to that stack over there?” The books you brought have not moved a millimeter since yesterday.

“One can never have too many books.”

“Nerd,” he teases, clasping you by the jaw to turn you toward him for another kiss. “We’ll get dressed and go then. Maybe you can recommend something for me.” He dwells on the kiss, lips tasting yours. He pulls back as your eyelashes flutter open. “Hmm…though…” 

You go still entirely when you feel his hand rest high on your thigh. “Chris…”

“You can have three,” he says easily. “Should tide you over until after dinner, yeah?” When his fingers find where you are sensitive, you shudder. 

“I don’t think…” Surely you can’t again. He’s gentle, attuned to your workings so well that it takes a light touch, circling and pressing. 

“Sure you can. Just a little one.” 

With a kiss, he muffles your sharp exhale when your stomach drops yet again and the spread of pleasure tingles through your body. 

“A goddamn menace,” you huff out as he squeezes your thigh. 

“Yeah, you’re really upset about it, I can tell.” He slides out of bed and into the bathroom without another word while you’re prone for several minutes before hauling yourself up to gather your discarded clothes. 

–

“Oh, it’s lovely,” you say reverently when he slows you down in front of the bookstore. You were so intent on avoiding the two teenagers on skateboards that you missed it. 

He opens the door and you enter into tall, overstuffed bookshelves. It’s not a big space, but every inch of it is used. There’s a small counter and till to your right, and the clerk nods in greeting. You nod back, reaching for Chris’s hand and tugging him toward the fiction section. “You said to recommend something.”

“Yeah, I have a job that I have to fly to, so I’ll need something to pass the time.” If he notices your falter at the mention of another ‘job’, he doesn’t say anything. You don’t ask, though the morbid side of you wants to, if it's this kind of job: creating intimacy with a client, a stranger. You tell yourself it could be a legitimate acting job, but it punches you in the chest anyway. 

“What do you normally read?” you ask with a steady voice. You stop in front of the Bs, pulling out a copy of Wuthering Heights. “Want a great presentation of badly-parented children that grow up and treat each other horribly?”

He chuckles. “That’s such a sales pitch.”

“It’s a pretty copy, though,” you say, sliding it back on the shelf. 

“I read more nonfiction.” He sees your expression. “I know, it’s boring, but a lot of it has been acting methodologies. To expand my skills.”

“Would you prefer nonfiction?” You run your finger along the spines, stopping on familiar surnames. “I have a few I could recommend.”

“No, no way. Give me something that’ll suck me in.” He comes up behind you, resting his chin on top of your head, arms around your waist. 

“Okay…more recent, or stuff like this,” You gesture to the books in front of you. “Classics?” You lean back into his embrace, savoring. There’s a long list of moments from this weekend you want to carve into the stone of your memory. This is one. 

“Uhhhh, maybe more recent. I’m not that smart.”

You sniff, covering his arms with your hands, holding him close. “That’s ridiculous. And besides, there are multiple kinds of intelligence.”

“There are?” You feel his words in your hair as much as you hear them. 

“There’s a theory that there are nine, and less than half are what would be considered academic.” You pause. “Sorry, I get a little ranty about stuff like that. You know how there are people who are so good at reading others, registering their emotions and how to empathize?”

“My mate, Felix.” He’s so sure. “He’s very affectionate, very aware of how to care for his friends and those around him.”

“Yes, exactly. That’s its own intelligence. You can be an astrophysicist, but cannot walk into a meeting with any awareness of the people around you. Two types of intelligence.” 

“So all that to say?” His words are shaded with repressed humor. 

“I’m going to find one classic and one more modern book for you.” 

You feel him kiss the top of your head. “So generous.” And he lets go. “Am I allowed to find something for you?”

You turn to him. “You want to?”

“If you trust me.”

“Absolutely.” 

Your confident response visibly surprises him; he blinks then that devastating smile, complete with dimples, appears. He drops his head to kiss you before disappearing down another aisle of books. 

You wander along the classics first, considering what you know of him, what story might immerse him. It’s easier to focus on that than on the job he’ll work after you. 

You have no idea how much time passes when Chris finds you in a corner, legs crossed and seated against the shelves. There’s a stack of five books next to your knee as you leaf through one. He squats down in front of you and waits until you notice him. 

He chuckles when you jolt at his presence. “I thought you were only recommending two?”

“This is my short list,” you reply indignantly at his amusement. “You might go and play sports with your friends, but I read when I have free time.”

He plops down across, offering you one book. You reach out to take it as he speaks.

“I’ve not read it, but I know the author wrote a book I liked as a kid. And I read the first page? I don’t know…I thought it sounded a bit like what you were talking about at the park. A simple life.”

A Circle of Quiet by Madeleine L’Engle; a memoir of her time at her family’s farmhouse. 

“Oh this sounds lovely.” You clutch it to your chest. “Thank you. I didn’t even know she had nonfiction.” 

“Glad you like it…” He looks at the books. “Do you need help narrowing down?”

“No. I think I’ve got it.” You pull two and hand them over. 

“Okay, I’ve heard of Frankenstein…why that one?”

“It’s a good book that happens to be a classic. It’s not terribly long in case you are intimidated by the older language. And it’s very different than any movie that has Frankenstein in the name.” You tap the other. “The Talented Mr. Ripley–”

“Also has a movie or two.”

“Yes, but I thought, with you being an actor and that’s basically what Tom is doing, you might enjoy it. It’s a series, so if you do like it, there’s more. Though it’s really dark, so I don’t know if you are into that.” You start to second-guess yourself. “Nor is it that recent…It’s from the fifties. Give it back.” You reach for it, but he holds it out of your range. 

“No. These are the ones you picked and I’m intrigued.” He shrugs. “I also like that neither is like, Game of Thrones-sized.”

“You read those?”

“God, no. I thought about it when I watched the show. Then saw the number of books in the series and the page numbers and decided: not for me.”

“If you like fantasy, I can–” You start to scrabble off the floor.

“Yeonin…I’m happy with these. Thank you.”  He doesn’t say anything for a second, smile still bright. “Want to browse more? Or should we go get a drink before dinner?”

“You don’t drink.”

“I don’t, but there are some really good mocktails out there.” He stands up, holding out his hand for you. You take it, letting him pull you up with ease. 

You bend down to gather the books that you pulled in your pursuit of finding some for him, and start to put them back. He doesn’t say anything, but shadows the retracing of your steps, humming something you don’t recognize, but is comforting. When you're done, he plucks the L’Engle book out of your hand and heads toward the till.

“Chris…” You hurry to follow. “Don’t you…Christopher.”

He turns at that, surprised. “Oh, good thing you don’t know my full name if this is all it takes.”

“If you’re going to buy my book,” you say as the clerk takes the stack he holds. “I should buy yours.”

“No.”

You actually harumph. “Then I’m paying for dinner.”

He opens his mouth, says nothing, then closes it. “We’ll see about that.” He thanks the clerk, who seems amused by the both of you. He hands you the brown paper bag. “You can–No, I can’t even let you do that. I’ll carry them.”

You huff, “You’re ridiculous.”

He grins at you, holding the door open. “I’m okay with that.”

You wait for him to step alongside you. “I’m certainly fine with drinks, but do we need to change for dinner?” You were in what you’d put on this morning: shorts, a soft and fluttery blouse. He was in jeans and t-shirt (it sounds simple, but the way the t-shirt fits him is illegal). 

“I meant to ask. Did you want to go fancy?” He stops you both at a red ‘don’t walk’ light.

You think about it, noticing how your arm is almost touching his, thinking maybe you should take his hand again, stay in that moment for a bit. But you feel his gaze on you as the light changes and you both make your way across the street, so you don’t, trying to remember his question. 

“I don’t feel like you could fit a suit in that one bag of yours.”

“You really are fixated on me in a suit.”

“You put that image in my head,” you reply, enjoying his grin. “It’s really your fault.”

“Sure it is. I do not have a suit, though I could probably do a bit better than this, if you wanted to?” He looked down at himself before switching the bag of books to his other hand and taking yours. He does it so easily without a concern or second-guessing. You wish you could have his confidence.

“I didn’t pack my ball gown.” 

“Pity.”

“I’m okay with wherever, really. We’ve already established neither of us can do spicy, so I trust whatever you decide on.” You laugh. “I think I just like not having to make a decision.”

“You can make the decisions later,” he says so casually as he leads you to a bar, more tavern, but a bar. You almost stumble at his words, the implications of later sending a wave of heat through you. It reminds you of the decision he’d coaxed out of you an hour or more ago. 

You’re so flushed, it’s like you already had spicy food. 

He squeezes your hand and pulls you into a stool at the long curved wooden bar. The bartender hands you both a menu which includes food, but you flip to the cocktails while Chris looks at the ‘zero-proof’ section. You smile over the top of the menu at him.

“What are you smiling for?” he asks, not even looking up. His observational skills are off the charts. 

“No reason.” How can you tell him that every detail about him makes you smile? You wouldn’t have minded if he did drink, but the fact he chooses not to strikes you as admirable, and cute. 

You are so far gone on him, it’s concerning. 

The bartender comes back to take your order: for you a rosemary gin fizz and for Chris, something with papaya. 

“Thank you for the book, again.”

“I hope you like it.”

Can you ask for some sort of contact from him? So you can tell him what you think once you finish it? Can you ask for a phone number so you can hear what he thinks of his books?

But you signed a contract about confidentiality. You could request him again if you wanted to have another weekend, night, hour, but this truly had been a venture and dent in your financial security.

You’d be so tempted to use every cent to see him as much as you could.

“I’m sure I will.” You can’t look away from him, happy to soak in the brightness that he radiates. 

“Stop.” He laughs at you.

“You’re handsome, Chris. I can’t help it.” It’s nice to be on this end of the teasing, to see the red in his skin, the duck of his head and glancing away of his eyes. 

“Please stop.”

“Fine,” you sigh in mock-exasperation.

He looks back and grins before resting his hand on your thigh. Your drinks are delivered and there’s a swapping to try the other before settling and discussing favorite books read in school. During the entire conversation, he doesn’t stop touching you in some form. None of it is inappropriate (you almost wish it was, a little), staying in the realm of casual and affectionate. 

But you are so stirred by it. You’ve spent years seeing how your friends and their partners interact in public, and casual touch is a thing you envy so much. The reassurance of someone’s presence by you, always. 

Chris is saying something about Fahrenheit 451, and your eyes are welling up with your everlong internal monologue. 

He says your name, interrupting himself. 

You shake your head. “Sorry. Thoughts.”

“Gonna share them?” 

You sort of want to. Because nothing you’ve revealed to him has backfired; he has not shamed or chastised you for being open and vulnerable. 

But these thoughts put a burden on him, a possibly very unwanted burden. They shove your feelings and wants and needs on a man who is only next to you to fulfill a contract. There is no longevity in this transaction. 

You’re lucky he turned out to be as wonderful as he is.

You shake your head again in answer to his question. “Not this time.” 

He looks skeptical, but lets it pass, before asking if you want another cocktail. It was exceptionally good, but you don’t want a buzz from any substance. He’s enough. You’re also a lightweight with spirits and you don’t want to hinder any part of tonight. 

He nods and asks for the check. You protest again, and he smiles winsomely as he hands the bartender his credit card.

“Can I buy dinner then?”

He sighs dramatically. “You make it very hard to properly court you.”

You laugh at the old-fashioned word. “Is that what you’re doing? I feel like I’m already very wooed.”

He shrugs, signing the receipt before standing up, hand out to you even though sliding off a barstool does not require assistance. 

Like you’d deny yourself the chance to hold his hand. 

“So,” you begin, curling an arm around his as you move into the nearly-gone sunshine outside. “What’s for dinner, since we’ve dispensed with the fancy?”

He leads you across the street, his other hand resting on your arm that’s tucked into his. Perhaps ‘courting’ is the correct word. 

You wish it was an autumnal day, with chilling wind so you could have an excuse to burrow into his warmth even more. 

“Hotpot?” he says, stopping in front of a restaurant with that in its title. “I never go to these with friends because they get it so spicy, but I figure, you and me…”

“The non-spicy ones.”

He laughs and opens the door for you. “I like that. The non-spicy ones.” 

You’re directed to a table, and you’re chuckling as Chris explains to your server that, basically, you want the blandest option they have. He, your server, looks unimpressed by the both of you. But the food is delightful, and filling, and not too spicy, though it does come very close to your threshold of tolerance. 

You both drink a lot of water. 

Dessert is bingsu three doors down from the hotpot restaurant, with strawberry and chocolate. He playfully smears some chocolate sauce on your lips, giving you no time to lick it off before doing so himself as though he’s reminding you how easily he can turn you on.You don’t need reminders, but you enjoy them. 

Which leads you back to the hotel, and your room, and the bed. 

He sits on the end of the bed, leaning back on his hands with a glint in his eyes. “So…you said something about lingerie last night.”

“After that dinner?”

He smirks. “You think that’s gonna matter?”

“Of course I think that’s gonna matter,” you argue, hands immediately going for your stomach which is…quite full. 

He rolls his eyes and gets up, helping himself to your suitcase. 

“Chris!”

“You can’t tell me you have lingerie and not let me see you in it. You aren’t that cruel.”

You had felt very optimistic when you’d bought it, but that positivity is fleeting and currently absent. 

He pulls it out, finger-hooked in one of the shoulder straps. “Wow.” He looks at you. “Please?”

You try to argue again, but it’s hard to deny him anything, not with heat in his eyes, and a pout on his lips. 

Taking the garment from him, you squat down to grab the second piece, the bottoms, and he doesn’t move away. 

“You don’t have to put those on.”

Bashfully, you look up at him. “No?”

He shrugs. “Just saying.” He winks and walks over to the window to look out. “Up to you.”

“He says after begging for me to put it on.”

“Begging?” He turns to see you heading to the bathroom to change, but you waver at his tone. “You haven’t seen me beg…do you want to?”

“I…” You’re completely at a loss. “Do I?”

His smile verges on the arrogance of a smirk. “Maybe.”

You hurry into the bathroom and assess yourself as well as the lingerie. It’s difficult to see yourself as attractive to someone you find attractive, but surely with the evidence of the past day, you can accept that Chris does, on some level. And all things that are attractive can be enhanced with something pretty: makeup, a perfectly wrapped present, a book with sprayed edges. 

You repeat these mantras in your head as you undress and pull on the lace and satin. It’s a fairly simple piece, not in the realm of scandalous according to your friends who helped you pick it out. But as you remind them, and yourself, your deep end is not others’ deep end. You adjust the top, so it fits and holds in what it needs to hold in. 

You assess again, full view in the mirror. You tidy up your leftover makeup, and accept your hair (you can’t work miracles) as is. 

Deep breath. You look fine.

You open the door, and peek out. He’s still by the window, the city lit up below him. He makes such a lovely silhouette that you forget what you’re supposed to be doing (what are you supposed to be doing? A grand reveal? Should you say ‘tada’?) and walk out fully into the room. 

He turns.

“So…yeah.” Not much better than ‘tada’. 

He doesn’t say anything, but comes over. The silence of the hotel room is deafening. You fidget because he doesn’t move quickly at all. You also look everywhere but at him. So when his hands take yours (and cease your fidgeting), you’re staring at his socked feet before allowing yourself to look up. 

You regret taking no photos of him because his face is art. 

“It’s okay?” you ask as he still hasn’t spoken. His eyes travel, feet to the top of your head, down each arm to your fingertips and back up to your neck, then face. 

“‘Okay’ is not the word I’d use,” he says, voice in that lower octave that makes you shiver. 

“Above average?”

The corner of his lips lift in amusement. “A bit more than that.” He takes a step closer, his hands releasing yours and settling at your waist instead. He leans in, mouth at your ear. “You look extraordinary.” 

You blink at him as he draws back, the word reverberating in your mind. You choose to believe him, actor or not. You choose to accept his admiration and desire. 

And enjoy it. 

“Thank you,” you reply. His answering smile is proud (of you, you think, for not dismissing the compliment) before he kisses you, his fingers tightening against the satin. You lean into him, convinced that kissing him for decades wouldn’t be any sort of difficulty, would never get old even as you and he got old.

Oh. That thought does not need to be chased. 

“You’re welcome,” he murmurs, mouth parted from yours. “Did you want to try anything new tonight?”

Do you? You’ve liked everything, and you know there’s a whole gamut of positions to be explored. Probably most beyond your imagination. 

But.

“I want–” You swallow as your throat is a bit dry. 

“Tell me.”

“I want everything we’ve done. Again.”

He half-laughs. “All of it?”

“Yes, please.”

He’s kissing you, laughing against your lips as he maneuvers you to the bed. He pulls you onto his lap, his hands sliding underneath the hem of your top, finding your skin. There’s a slight roughness to his fingers, grazing that makes you quiver. With hands in his hair, you kiss him as deeply as you can, tasting, tongues playing. He groans when you roll your hips, subconscious as your body works to quiet your mind. You do it again, feeling how hard he’s become in minutes, the friction almost too harsh for the thin and delicate fabric you wear. 

You want and crave, and break away to start on the button and zipper of his jeans.

“Baby,” he whispers, lips pressed to your shoulder and collarbone. “You first…”

“Can I…? Can you show me how to…suck you off?”

It’s his turn to blink, to take a moment to comprehend your question. “You wanna…fuck, yeah, of course. But in a minute, okay? I need to taste you first.” With hands spread on your back, he moves so you're lying down beneath him. His hands slip to your underwear like he’s going to take them off, but he pauses.

“What is it?”

He’s staring at you, specifically that underwear. “I’m always so grateful for lingerie. It’s the best thing.”

You try to hit his arm as he starts to giggle. He dodges you and drops down to press an open mouth kiss right to your clothed core. Your hips buck and he pushes them down. 

“You know I’m gonna drag this out, yeonin.”

It’s such a tease, to get his mouth, but have something in the way. To feel the heat and the wet, but not fully. 

“Christopher…” There’s nothing but whine and need in your voice. 

He hums, sending pleasant vibrations against your sensitive skin. 

“Please…take it off.” He may still be holding you down with his hand on your hip, but you can squirm, desperate to be closer, to have more. 

“I thought you wanted me to beg.”

“Chris…” It’s plaintive and without shame. 

He acquiesces and the sodden underwear is removed. But there’s not an immediate return.

“Fuck, you really are dragging it out.” You lift your head to see him watching you with all the arrogance someone as gifted with his mouth could be. 

“Maybe I like hearing you curse.” He leans back down, but kisses right below your navel, one hand finding purchase on your thigh. “Maybe we need a lesson in delayed gratification.”

You cover your face with your hand. “You seemed so nice till now. What if I write a complaint letter to the company?”

He moves up so he’s face to face with you, his expression stern. “That a threat?”

“Maybe.”

He drops his head to kiss under your jaw, near your ear. He bides his time, sucking the skin in just the right spot. You moan wantonly, unable to keep your hands twisted in the sheets, seeking his shoulders and arms to cling to. 

He’s still dressed.

You pull at his shirt when he finally withdraws from your jaw, undoubtedly leaving a mark (you know you’ll look at it in the coming days, remembering). He indulges you, removing his t-shirt so your greedy hands can caress the bared skin. But he doesn’t stay put, returning to where he’s left you so wanting.

You feel his breath at your entrance.

Your next ‘please’ is broken and without sound. 

When you feel his tongue glide up to your clit, you are gasping nonsense into the quiet of the room. He sucks and licks lazily, taking breaks whenever you feel the imminent high. You curse several more times, words catching when he adds his fingers to coax the build even more, curling inside you as his mouth reengages. 

And finally, finally, you break, pleasure throbbing and pulsating. 

He doesn’t stop when you come down from it.

“What–what are you–”

“You can give me another.”

And you can, to your surprise. It’s almost like an aftershock of the first one, remnants of bliss sweeping through. 

Only then does he lie next to you, wiping your essence from his mouth. Minutes go by as you come down. 

“So, do you still want to–” He doesn’t finish his question because you’ve rolled over, one leg over his hips so you’re straddling him. You go back to that button and zipper of his jeans, ignoring his hands trying to do it himself. You tug down his jeans, pulling them off before climbing back on top of him, palming his cock.

“Fuck..wow, okay.” He props himself onto his elbows as you discard his boxer-briefs as well. You wrap your hand around him, thumb at his tip, a little shaky. “You can use–” You cut him off again, this time when you bend down to lick. “Holy..fuck…yeah.” You look up at him, sucking the head before sliding down to take in more of him. You think what he says next is another curse, but you don’t recognize it. “You said to teach you…”

You slide off. “Wait, it’s good? It’s…well, it’s not much different than having a popsicle.”

He falls back, laughing bewilderedly. “I guess that’s not wrong…but–” 

It’s really quite fun to stop him talking with your mouth. 

He gives you sparse instructions (‘hands where your mouth can’t reach’, ‘suck harder’), but when his dick hits the back of your throat, he pulls you off.

“But…”

“No,” he states, reaching for a condom. “I won’t last much longer if you keep that up. Damn, you were good.” He slides the condom on in record time, then places a pillow under your lower back. He pauses when you cup his face in your hands, needing his mouth. He sighs at your kiss, his tongue entwining with yours, his hands gripping your thighs, moving them so they’re wrapped around his hips. Still kissing, he pushes in; it’s still a stretch, but it doesn’t jolt you. It feels:

“Decadent.” 

He retreats slightly. “What?”

“You feel decadent,” you say, uncaring that you’re breathy and needy. You trace along his shoulders and chest. “Hedonistic.”

He doesn't say anything, sheathed entirely in you, letting your body adjust to him. You’re smiling, eyes half-open; your ability to filter eradicated. 

“I always think of decadent…for like, sweets.”

You rub noses with him, delighted. “A very very excellent dessert, Christopher. Can’t stop from having another bite.” You punctuate this with a nip on his neck, causing him to shudder. He pulls out of you to thrust back in. You’re wrapped around him, hooking your ankles together at the small of his back. “So. Fucking. Good.” Staccato, nearly in time with his thrusts. You clench when he lifts your leg to his shoulder, the angle changing. “Oh god.”

“Almost there, baby?” he pants out, the drag of his cock along your walls making you to tense even more.

You nod frantically, seeking any skin to kiss, bite, taste, your hands scrambling for purchase on his back, nails digging. His works your clit, fingers practiced and you feel the drop in your stomach chased by the spread of elation through your limbs; you feel drunk and you force your eyes to stay open, watching as he thrusts faster. You smooth his hair as he stutters, spilling into the condom; his weight heavy on top of you. 

You draw your index finger up and down the middle of his back, relaxed and sated. 

Eventually, he lifts his head, setting his chin on his hands that rest above your breasts. You wonder if you both wear identical sleepy smiles and tired eyes. 

“Hi,” you whisper into the quiet of the evening. 

“Hi yourself.” He raises his head just enough to meet your lips before returning. “Am I too heavy?”

“No. Feels good.” You let your other hand drift down to the curve of his ass. He jumps at your grip. “Very good.”

He chuckles. “Not so timid now. Confident woman.” He takes a deep breath, words a little slower. “Wanna shower with me?”

You’re hesitant, but the looming deadline of this escapade is making you bolder, so you say yes. To have Chris wash your hair, his big hands massaging your scalp…shoulders and back with a loofah…

Still decadent. 

“So…since you seem like the expert.” You soap up his hair, returning the massage. He rests against you, his back to your front and you use the shower wall to hold you both up. 

“Hmm?”

“Shower sex? As sexy as it sounds in books or is it an accident waiting to happen?”

You wish you could record his gleeful laughter, uninhibited. 

“Um. You have to be really careful. Would recommend bathtub mats.” He turns to you, your hands still in his hair. “Is that a suggestion?”

You can’t help it, you glance down to see he’s already half-hard.

“Wow. You were half-asleep ten minutes ago.”

He leans close to you, kissing you softly. “You can’t beat the clean up when you fuck in a shower though.”

Now you’re laughing, then gasping because he’s slipped his fingers into you, mouth on yours. You don’t protest, you just hold onto his shoulders as your muscles tighten and tighten–

He swallows your moan, holding you up as you tremble. When you can stand on your own, he moves you both under the spray of water. He tilts his head to you, rinsing it, and you shakily run your hands through his hair to rid it of the shampoo. He flips it out of his eyes before reaching to turn off the water, but he freezes when you encircle his dick with your fingers.

“You don’t have to–”

“Easy clean up, right?” It’s empowering to feel how he stiffens at your touch, how stroking, gently squeezing works him into short breaths and his head thrown back. You keep playing with him as you eliminate the distance between you, mouth to his neck, sucking and licking.

“Fuck…I’m…”

It’s messy, but the shower washes it away. He slumps against the wall, energy depleted. He opens one eye to look at you. 

“Very confident.” 

The shower is turned off, and you both wrap up in towels. You rub his hair dry, smiling at its wildness. He tugs your towel off in retaliation, and makes a plea for you to sleep naked with him. 

“Or the lingerie?”

“I can’t imagine that’s comfortable to sleep in,” you retort, still naked, but pulling on your pajamas quickly. He’s pouting on the bed, your towel in his hand. You plop next to him, toying with his towel, wrapped around his waist. “But feel free to sleep naked.”

He makes a not-really-chagrined face at you before finding his own pajamas. Teeth are brushed, your hair is somewhat dried, and you both are in bed with the lights off. The dark and quiet take over. You look at the clock on the nightstand, time continuing to move toward his departure. It hits you again, in this moment, how much you like this man.

Chris drapes his arm over your middle, curling closer. “Good?”

“Yes, good…good night, then.” You work hard to not let any tell-tale emotion into your voice, and though you have been more open with him in these two days than anyone outside of your closest friends, you are adept at hiding how you feel. It’s a way of surviving and that’s what you need right now.

He nuzzles you. “No kiss?” The playful teasing lilt to his voice has you hesitating, but you turn your head and kiss him, languid. “You’re really good at that.”

“Kissing?”

“Mmmm,” he affirms. “I like kissing you.”

You swallow, shoving down the incessant ache of feelings. “I like kissing you too.” You can barely see in the lack of light, but you know he smiles at you. You can sense it, attuned to him. 

When his breathing seems to slow, you turn away carefully. You don’t move his arm from your stomach, but you don’t cover it either, lace your fingers with his. Half your brain is saying, ‘do it! Take this moment, this affection and enjoy it. You’ll never have it again!’. The other half, the stronger half that is built from the past, experiences and disappointments, doesn’t yell. Doesn’t need to. The voice is unrelenting and mocking; ‘don’t enjoy too much, because when he leaves tomorrow, you’re gonna hurt. You absolute idiot, you’ve gone and fallen for him. Keep as much distance as you can, because maybe then you won’t be devastated tomorrow in an empty hotel room, in your empty home.’

You hate that voice, the one that tells you the truth. You didn’t think there was danger of actually becoming attached to a man you hired for sex. Yes, sex produced oxytocin which gave anyone cuddly feelings, but this is no longer about the sex. You’re more devastated by the warm smile that wasn’t trying to seduce, the laugh, the hand-holding while walking in the park, the furrowed brow when you talked about books he hadn’t read. The compliments that had nothing to do with your looks, the compliments that did. 

You feel your eyes burn with impending tears, but you force them back and down. There will be time for that tomorrow. When you’re back home, in reality. 

–

It’s hazy, the sounds you hear. Rustling, movement. Something being zipped opened or closed. Then there’s a soft kiss on your forehead. 

“I’m gonna go grab some coffee, okay?” whispers, soft and low. You mumble something before hearing the door. You blink open your eyes to see that it's very early, before seven.

Seven.

When he arrived.

You bolt up in bed (it’s not quite that as you’re still seventy-five percent asleep), nearly falling as you scramble to the bathroom. He isn’t exactly paid by the hour, but you bought two days, forty-eight hours.

That forty-eight is over in fifteen minutes. 

You wash your face, brush your teeth as quickly as you can, then stumble back out into the bedroom, wondering about changing. Do you want Chris to see you in just your pjs as his last image of you? You are really overthinking this. It’s not cold, but you slip on a soft sweatshirt for coziness. You open up your purse for chapstick, a regular morning routine, and as you do you see the small stack of business cards. Your business cards. 

You rarely use them. You aren’t much good at promoting yourself and your skills, even worse your workplace. But the employee handbook insists on having them, so there they are in your purse, metaphorically collecting dust.

You look at Chris’ bag, unzipped, open. 

Surnames are not shared from the company, for confidentiality purposes obviously. You do not know his. He does not know yours. You imagine that during an engagement, assignation, whatever one calls this, the escort or the client could share their last name, their actual place of work, their town or city, anything that grounded them in actual reality. 

But Chris never offered his. You aren’t about to cross that line and ask. 

He might not want to know. He might not feel anything close to what you’re feeling. It’s his job. He might be incredibly good at connecting with his client every time, and you’re only another client. 

But you’re bad at letting go. 

So you drop one business card into the open bag. It could never be found, crumpled after several re-packings for his many trips…his many jobs. 

But you’re no good at letting go.

You hear the sound of the key card scanning and the door opens with Chris, dressed in a black henley and dark jeans, his hair as fluffy as air-drying makes it. He smiles to find you sitting on the bed, hands clasped in your lap. He offers you one of the two to-go cups.

“Morning,” he says as you take it, dropping his head to kiss you softly. 

“Good morning.”

He tilts his head toward the large window and seating area. “Come.” Your hand finds his as you walk over to sit on the couch, looking out at the waking city. 

“What did you get?” you ask, gesturing to his cup. “Since you don’t like coffee.”

“Tea…I need something this morning,” he replies, shooting you a wink. The reference to last night’s activities and their endurance normally would embarrass you, heat your skin and cause you to drop your gaze from him, but you stare at his profile as he looks out the window, your mind full of saying goodbye. He takes the lid off his cup and blows on it. He glances at his watch. 

You wonder if he’s as hyper-aware of the dwindling minutes as you are. 

“Do you have a break before your next job? Or is it all work, no play?”

He half-grins, looking over at you. “Do you really want to know?”

He’s got you there. 

“Do you get enough time off?”

“I do. If I don’t, my friends make sure I do.”

“They sound lovely.”

“They can be.” He sets down his tea, leans toward you. “You good this morning?”

“Of course.” 

“I thought of waking you when I woke up, but I figured you needed your sleep?” He rests his hand on your knee, much like the first night, but so different from the first night. “I’m sorry we can’t–” He tilts his head to the side in apology, his silence filling in the rest of the sentence. 

“Having coffee…or tea with you in the morning for a few minutes is really nice.” You don’t know if you can explain to him how much of the non-sex parts of this weekend were as meaningful and special as the rest. Is that appropriate when so much of his job is sex?

His hand molds to your knee. “Yeah, it is.” You can feel his gaze as you sip your coffee, doctored like you like, which means he paid attention yesterday at the diner. 

Of course he did.

“Chris…” you begin, unsure of what to say. “Thank you.”

He waits until you meet his eyes before nodding. “You’re welcome.” He takes your cup from you, setting it on the table and cups your cheek in his hand. “You’re very welcome.” 

You try not to lean into his kiss too much. You try to memorize how he feels, tastes, smells; to tuck it away in your memory bank like an old photo album that you can look through from time to time. You savor for as long as it lasts. 

“So…is there a place that I go to, like Yelp, and leave a good review?” you murmur when he draws back.

You get his laughter, the bright sound of it, the image of shaking shoulders and eye-crinkles. Something else to add to that album.  

“I think the company does contact you with a survey.” His eyes sparkle when he looks at you, before he reaches for his tea. 

“It’ll be glowing.”

He shakes his head, amused and maybe a little embarrassed. That rosy hue highlights his cheeks and twists your heart in ways you don’t want to think about. He is the most devastating man. 

It’s quiet for a few, you sipping your coffee, him his tea. Then you hear him check his watch when something beeps. 

Seven am.

“You have to go,” you say before he can. He glances up from his watch, looking at you. You smile, probably tinged with sadness, but it’s a real smile at least. “Be safe.”

He doesn’t move as you do, to stand up. To walk him to the door and bid him goodbye. You walk to the bed, unmade and haphazard. You zip up his bag as you hear his footsteps follow. He’s very close when you hold out his bag. 

He takes it, but lets it drop to the floor before pulling you into his arms. He’d be a good hugger too, of course. You hug back, hands splayed against the breadth of his back, the ribbed henley scratching your fingers lightly. 

“You be good to yourself, okay?” he whispers in your ear. He draws back only a little. “Say a nice thing about yourself every once and awhile.”

You look up at him as he traces his finger along your eyebrows and nose, seeming to take you in. 

“You too.” 

He smiles at you, kissing your nose then your lips. You let go and he grabs his bag. He pauses at the door, looking back at you, then nods before opening the door and disappearing through it. 

You let yourself fall back on the bed the moment the door shuts. You don’t think you’ll be able to move for a while.

--

© yoongihan 2025. please do not steal, translate, repost, or whatever. stray kids belong to themselves and all idols used in this piece are just the inspiration for characters and do not in any way reflect the actual humans. 

[bettainbarbados]

An Insomniac’s Guide to SATs

If you're in this community or have read Neville, you've probably heard of SATs. I often wonder why SATs were much more successful during Neville's day, plus how that has declined so fast, but that's a post for another day.

Before we begin SATs, here are some changes I highly recommend you do, (at least for the time being):

Stay off your devices for about an hour (I still watch TV without issue. I think it's because the TV is far enough away.) before heading to bed. If you want to enter SATs, no Instagram Reels before bedtime!

If you have trouble falling asleep, try cutting your caffeine intake or not drinking caffeinated drinks at all.

Tell yourself, “I'm entering SATs tonight.” Whenever your mind wanders about it, or you start thinking you're not going to, remind yourself you are already entering SATs tonight. If you're telling yourself you've already failed, or you won't enter, you're just setting yourself up for failure.

If you don't have trouble falling asleep before bed, ignore the above. These are changes that helped me fall asleep in a reasonable time (and not loop my scenes for so long).

[SATs = State Akin to Sleep]

SATs are exactly what they sound like, the state akin to sleep! Contrary to popular belief, you do not need to wait until bedtime to do them. What matters is getting into SATs and fully immersing yourself there—that is how you impress the subconscious thoroughly.

“Do you need to do SATs for the law to work?”

No, there are other ways to manifest! For the longest time, I didn't use SATs at all. (Having insomnia and all.) In my journey, though, I have found them to be incredibly powerful, and it leaves me to do my day-to-day in the 3D without reacting as much.

How to do SATs:

Make sure you're tired before attempting this! It's far easier to do SATs while sleepy. I have looped my scene for an hour or two—it's not fun!

Pick a desire you have. If starting out with SATs, I recommend you only try with one desire and not all of them at once.

Lie down in a comfortable position (you can also sit in a chair), one that you can fall asleep in.

Close your eyes, and tell your left foot, “You are relaxed now.” Feel it being relaxed, but don't force it. Allow it to come to you. Do this with your right foot. Then the ankles, and so forth, do it with every body part.

If done correctly, you will experience a floaty feeling in which you feel more like your mind than your body. (Best way I can describe it.) If not, repeat. Try talking in a slower voice that continuously gets slower as you do this; it'll help you get sleepier. If you have trouble with this visualization, try something easier for you. The imaginal act doesn't matter; whatever gets you drowsy and relaxed does.

You can now begin SATs. Engage in a scene (in first person—read here for more) in which you have already achieved what you desired.

You should wake up feeling like it is done. If not, repeat it the next night. However, if you feel as if you no longer need to/desire to loop the scene, continue your life as usual. Whenever you think of your desire, remind yourself it is already manifested within.

Whatever you have in consciousness as you go to sleep is the measure of your expression in the waking two-thirds of your life on earth. Nothing stops you from realizing your objective save your failure to feel that you are already that which you wish to be, or that you are already in possession of the thing sought. Your subconscious gives form to your desires only when you feel your wish fulfilled. -Neville Goddard, Feeling is the Secret

Fall asleep every night (and you must fall asleep looping the scene), being what it is your desire, and nothing on this Earth can stop it from happening.

[rexhya]

You the reader have built a successful career as a jujitsu sorcerer. The pay is great, but the hours are long and stressful. After completing an extra grueling mission, the reader decide to reward herself by taking a few days off for a much needed stay home vacation. That means no missions, no meetings, and no emergency calls! The only thing the reader has to concern herself with is how she is going to enjoy the warm spring weather.  The night before the reader’s vacation, she is met with a call from Nanami. No one is sure how, but Gojo has been hit by a curse! Is he okay? Sort of... He has not been physically harmed but our beloved white-haired sorcerer has been turned into a cat! Since the reader has the next few days off, it has been decided that she will be the one to care for the feline. Any concerns from the reader are brush aside and she is assured that the curse will (hopefully) wear off after a few days. So tell me my dear Rexhya, how does the rest of the reader’s vacation pan out with cat Gojo?

days spent w/ catoru — ✦ ✦

warn — not proofread!

incl — catoru

You stretched your back wildly, todays missions were grueling as usual. One special grade was enough to make you wanna take a break for ages. Luckily you didn't have to wish, today was your last work day before a week long vacation full of irresponsible spending and vegging out. Someone had to spend that sorcerer money.

You sighed again, trying to settle into your nightmare routine when your phone began ringing. It was from Nanami, and you automatically let out a breath of desperation. You and Nanami were close but both agreed to not call each other outside of work unless it was work related. This would be bad

"Hey, this still counts as my day off, no takebacks." you groaned, phone to your ear.

"And I apologize for that however this has nothing to do with your time off I'm afraid."

"It doesn't?"

"No."

"Explain, you're making me nervous..."

And he does, you almost want to hang up because of how rediculus it sounds.

"Gojo's been hit with a curse...and now he's a cat?"

"Correct."

"And you've deemed me responsible for taking care of him."

"Also correct."

"On my days off."

Nanami, sighed. "Once again, I apologize, this is secondhand information for me as well. A decision not made by me, they say it'll wear off in a couple of days."

You sigh again, soaking into your bath, "Well in that case I suppose it's fine. Send him over or do whatever it is you need to do, so just as long as I can continue my own life." Nanami grunted and hung up the phone, this probably wouldn't be to hard. You've known Gojo for a long time now, his personality was already something similar of a feline anyways.

How hard could this be?

"Meow."

You stare at the soft whites of the cat in front of you. His vivid blue eyes piercing yours.

You cocked your head sideways, Gojo cheekily doing the same.

You furrowed your brows, "Copy Cat." but he only meowed softly, nuzzling your fingers as if he were a real cat.

"You know I'm not going to spoil you or anything like that, you're probably going to be gone in a week so don't get your hopes up or anything." Gojo made a rather halarious gesture with his jaw, flicking his tail in mock irritation. After he'd been hit by this quirk things had been going in circles, but he knew one thing and that was in this cat form, you would have full advantage of him and he would make you pay attention to him if it was the last thing he did.

It was only the first day of you vacation, you didn't have any plans besides catching up on shows and lazing around all day, even with your new companion that wouldn't stop you. You slumped into the couch tiredly, practically ignore Satoru in a his fluffy whiteness.

"Mreowww." the cat had whined, pawing at your leg insistently.

You ignored him, this behavior wasn't much different from the regular Gojo anyways.

"MERRWWWW," he was practically hissing at this point. You rolled your eyes and paused your show, "What."

"Meow?" he cocked his head sideways, you didn't buy into the innocent act but decided to entertain him anyway. He continued pawing at you untill you leaned over so that your head was facing his directly.

"What, was is it Satoru, I'm trying to watch my show here." Satoru said nothing as he climbed his way up your legs and onto your lap, nuzzling your hands affectionately.

"Are you seriously asking me to pet you?" you said incredulously.

"Merw." and presented himself before you.

"You're not a real cat you know, this is only temporary so don't get used to it." but you began stroking the feline anyways, scratching under his chin and running fingers through his long fur. A very loud and prominent purring sound could be heard coming from him, although knowing Gojo, most of it was probably exaggerated.

Not long after this a simple routine between the two of you developed. You go, he goes. You stay, he stays. It was aroundmid week when your pretty little kitty became a slight problem.

"GOJO NO, LET GO OF HIM YOU TYRANT." but the cat just wasn't budging, his teeth and cawls fully gripped on the store employee who was helping you buy items for Gojos stay.

You hadn't even known what went wrong, one moment you were talking to the guy, joking in fact, the next Satoru's claws were wrapped around the poor mans neck, practically trying to kill him. And for what reason you had no clue, could Gojo seriously be turning to an animal?

"Get, off of him sicko." you finally were able to pry him off, but the guy was already a bloody mess. Gojo only hissed as he cradled his neck, was there some sort of cursed energy you couldnt detect or something? You doubted it. Even if you weren't the strongest sorcerer you were no doubt an extremely powerful ome. A curse during this time wouldn't have gotten past you.

"God, I am so sorry. Are you okay?" the man nodded and temderly nodded.

"Y-yeah, fistey little cat you got there." you smiled, at least he wasn't mad, though he had total right to be. People shouldn't bring there pets into stores if they can't handle them.

"Yeah, he's been very irritating these days." Satoru shrunk back into his cage, and for a second he almost looked scared.

You offered to help the worker but he insisted he was fine, thankfully. You immediately put Satoru in timeout, ignoring his insistent calls for you, he was so loud you almosost gave in.

You stood your ground howeverx you wouldn't let anyone be hurt by him under your care anymorre.

Gojo didn't seem to mind though, after all you wlats returned to him.

+ bonus !!

satoru: lying in you bed like its his, it's you last day of vacation

you: lying there as well

you: welp, time for bed i guess

overnight: you arise to a very tall and veryy lanky, 6 foot blue eyed non feline in your bed

you: you have GOT to be kidding me

satoru: merw?

[alexbkrieger13]

Nice lil interview w magda & p about the world 7 tournament https://www.dn.se/sport/mer-prispengar-i-sjumannaturnering-an-i-champions-league-pinsamt-for-uefa/

More prize money in seven-a-side tournament than in Champions League: "Embarrassing for Uefa"

On May 24, the women's Champions League football will be decided with the Arsenal–Barcelona final in Lisbon. The winner will have won around 14 million Swedish kronor.

So far, everything is “business as usual”.

What is unusual this year: The day before, another major European team was awarded just half an hour away – with 25 million .

The World Sevens Football tournament is the new upstart in women's football. Eight teams share a total prize pool of five million dollars (nearly 50 million kronor), outside the auspices of the European Football Association, UEFA.

– The fact that this gives more prize money than the Champions League puts a lot of pressure on Uefa to actually increase the prize money in the Champions League, I think that is positive, says Swedish national team defender Magdalena Eriksson.

– It almost becomes a little embarrassing for them.

Her Bayern Munich is one of the teams in Estoril outside Lisbon May 21-23.

Both the 31-year-old and his club and life partner Pernille Harder, Danish national team star, will travel with the German champion team to Portugal - despite the fact that the club season is actually over and the European Championship is just over a month away.

– We will go there with the whole squad, but some are only there as support, says Magdalena Eriksson when DN meets the Bayern duo in Munich.

– I have said that I am there as a backup if needed.

So you've had to make your own wishes if you want to play?

– Absolutely. It's really been up to us players. So there's been no pressure at all from the club.

The background is an already intense match for the biggest European women's stars.

The workload is high and no one wants to risk anything before the European Championship. At the same time, a new, fast-paced format is appealing.

The matches are played seven against seven, 2x15 minutes and with free substitutions.

– I think it's really exciting, says 32-year-old striker Pernille Harder.

– I've been going back and forth a bit about whether I want to play or not because of the European Championship, but this is also a fun way to keep going. And it's the Nations League the following week anyway, so for me it was this or running on the treadmill. And then I'd rather play.

Behind World Sevens is, among others, Jennifer Mackesy, co-owner of Gotham FC in the American women's league NWSL.

The idea is to attract a new type of audience.

– I don't think you have to be an extreme football nerd to watch this, says Pernille Harder.

– When it's eleven against eleven, you can sometimes think that not much is happening. But here a lot more will happen, it's a little smaller pitch, there will be more goals, more intensity. There will be a little more excitement.

Is it the future or a gimmick?

– I think it's fun that you can think innovatively about football. It's otherwise so strict and "old school", it's looked the same for so long, answers Magdalena Eriksson.

– So this is an exciting new approach.

She makes a comparison with the popular Kings League and Queens League in Spain – football with board game or video game rules.

– It has worked very well. But with us you also get a little more “real” clubs, and this is still something we do in training – at least once a week.

[inawickedlittletown]

Through The Darkness To The Dawn (BuckTommy) - 8x17 coda - 2/2

Notes: I started writing this right after watching the episode. I wanted to get into Buck's head and also sort of deal with the Eddie of it all because I really do think he has quickly become my least favorite character in 9-1-1. I don't think I'm alone in that.

The title comes from Nobody Knows by The Lumineers

Summary: Buck is grieving and Eddie is just kind of the worst. 8x17 coda.

Words: 3.5k

Read on Ao3

Part One

-

Part Two: Love Is Deep As The Road Is Long

Tommy: Hey. How are you?

Evan: Okay all things considered. 

Tommy: I’m sorry. 

Tommy: How are you? 

Tommy: If you need anything, let me know. 

Tommy: I heard you guys are going back to work tomorrow. Good luck. Be safe. 

Tommy: Hope you’re doing alright. I figure you’ve at least read my messages so that’s something, but if you want me to stop texting, let me know. I don’t want to bother you, but I do want to know that you’re okay. 

Tommy: Hey, they asked me to be a pallbearer at the funeral. Figured I’d let you know so it’s not a surprise. 

Evan:  👍🏻

Tommy: Wish we’d gotten a chance to talk, but I know how hard today was. It was for me too, but you told me once he was like a father to you. If you want to talk about it or anything at all, I’m here, Evan. 

Tommy: Hey, wanted to see how you’re doing. Crazy, all this stuff with the water. Be safe out there. 

Tommy: Hey, just wanted to check in and see how you were doing. It’s been a few weeks, but I know what he meant to you. I’m here, Evan. 

Buck: Are you home? 

Tommy: I am. Do you want to come over? 

Tommy opened his front door when he heard Evan’s truck pull into the driveway. He stepped outside and waited. For being so close to Summer, there was a bite in the air, but Tommy ignored the urge to go back inside to grab another layer. 

Since the funeral, he hadn’t heard from Evan or really anyone from the 118. Tommy understood. He also knew that he didn’t belong with them, no matter how much he wanted to. They were a family and they didn’t need him, the interloper who didn’t even have the excuse of dating Evan to be included. It was, in a way, helpful for him to know that they all had each other and could deal with it together. He figured that they would all most likely just close in with Evan right in the middle. 

It had been a bit of a shock, if he were being honest, that he’d been asked to be a part of the funeral, that he got to walk with the 118. After the funeral, he’d had a moment with Ravi and Hen, got to hear how they were both doing, but he’d seen Eddie and Evan leave together. He couldn’t leave well enough alone, so every few days he texted Evan. Just knowing that he did read the messages was enough. If he ever turned off read receipts, Tommy would be devastated. 

Did Tommy hope that eventually Evan would answer? Maybe. But he just wanted Evan to know that Tommy was a text or call away and that he would always answer. It was the very least he could offer because what Tommy wouldn’t do is try to be where he wasn’t wanted. At the first sight of Evan, Tommy wondered if that had been the right choice. 

“Hi,” Evan said, voice a little raspy. 

He looked defeated. Grief struck and sad. It wasn’t that Tommy hadn’t expected Evan to still be grieving, it was that he had never seen him this…well, diminished. In that moment, it felt like something or someone had taken grasp of Tommy’s heart and squeezed for how much it hurt to see Evan like that. 

Tommy had yet to shake, even after so many weeks, the image of Evan collapsing in that hallway. He didn’t know if anyone else knew about that moment, because when Evan came out after going through decontamination, his eyes had been rimmed red and swollen but he’d been far more put together than Tommy had expected. A little out of it, maybe, but holding it together. Tommy didn’t think that Evan had even noticed that it was Tommy that made sure he made it home. 

As he stepped towards him, Tommy opened his arms. “Hey, Evan.” 

Evan collapsed into him. He was cold and shaking. He sniffled. Tommy wrapped his arms around him and heard Evan sigh. 

“You’re freezing,” Tommy said. “Let’s get out of the cold.” 

Evan kept close, but he let Tommy steer him inside. He also let Tommy settle him into the couch and wrap the throw he kept over the back of it around him. 

“Tea,” Tommy said. “You need something warm.” 

“Okay,” Evan said. 

Something was wrong. More than Bobby’s death. Evan looked like the weight of the world was sitting on his shoulders and he had no one asking him if they could help him carry it. 

Evan followed him to the kitchen, leaned against a counter as Tommy got the electric kettle on. He moved to his mug cabinet and then chose two tea bags. Chamomile Lavender felt apt considering the time. He kept looking back at Evan. 

“Can I ask what happened?” Tommy asked. 

Evan moved towards him and Tommy lifted an arm so Evan could press himself into him. He was shaking a little and Tommy didn’t think it was all the cold. Evan didn’t say anything and Tommy figured that maybe that was what he needed. So he held him until their water was ready and even then Evan kept close as Tommy poured the water into their mugs. 

“Couch?” 

“Couch,” Evan responded. 

They situated themselves, Evan wrapping the throw over his shoulders and curling into himself, legs tucked in under him, his hands cradling the mug. Tommy sat next to him, let his knee rest against Evan’s knee. 

“I went to the beach,” Evan said. “I think I was out there too long.” 

“Why the beach?” 

Evan shrugged. “The stars. Good place to talk to Bobby. I keep trying to…I don’t know, find him? It’s stupid, I know, but…”

Tommy blew over his cup of tea. He saw Evan do the same.

“It’s not stupid,” Tommy said.  

“I spoke to him right before,” Evan said. “That night, I mean.”

Tommy had known that. He’d seen it. The door had closed with Bobby on one side and Evan on the other and then Bobby took off the protective gear, 

“He told me I’d be okay but I think he was wrong. I don’t think I’ll ever be okay again.”

“Oh, Evan,” Tommy said. “I don’t think he meant you’d be okay right away. No one expects that.”

Evan scoffed. His face twisted into anger and Tommy knew almost right away that there was more to whatever was going on with Evan. 

“Is someone expecting you to already be over it?” 

“More like that I’m making it all about me.” 

Tommy put his cup down on the coffee table, leaned towards Evan and placed his hands on his knees. Evan’s eyes were watery and Tommy was filled with a combination of adoration for this man and also a wave of sadness and protectiveness. 

“Losing someone you care about is about you, Evan,” Tommy said. “It’s about everyone that lost him. Who? Tell me who said that to you.” 

Evan took a sip of his tea. He winced a little. “It doesn’t matter.”

People did strange things when they were grieving, but he knew Hen and Chim would never make Evan’s feelings less important. Neither would Maddie. That left Ravi and Eddie which really did just leave Eddie. Unless it was someone else…Evan’s parents? Another friend that Tommy didn’t know? Someone else from the 118? Gerrard? 

“Well they’re wrong,” Tommy said. “Your feelings and your loss and your grief are about you. They’re about you and Bobby and maybe they overlap with how everyone else is feeling, but that doesn’t make you or what you’re going through less important. Sweetheart, you are one of the most selfless people I’ve ever met and I know you haven’t been putting your grief and your feelings above anyone else’s. I know you.”

Evan let out a sob and he shook enough that Tommy reached to steady the tea mug before Evan spilled it, grabbing it and setting it aside. He took Evan’s hands in his own. He rubbed the back of Evan’s hands with his thumbs.

“You’re not selfish, Evan,” Tommy reiterated. “In fact, you could do with being a little more selfish.” 

Evan leaned forward and kissed him. Tommy hadn’t expected it, and it was over before he could properly kiss back. 

“Sorry,” Evan said. “I just…I shouldn’t have but I—”

“Don’t ever be sorry for that.”

Evan’s lips turned up a little. “So it was okay?” 

“Better than,” Tommy said. He reached over to touch Evan’s cheek, wiped a tear away. 

Evan leaned into his touch, closed his eyes for a split second and then opened them again. 

“You don’t see me like everyone else. Not…not in a bad way. You know, Eddie said I didn’t do enough…that he doesn’t know what he could have done to save Bobby.” 

Eddie Diaz. Of course. 

Tommy supposed that if he really thought about it, no one else could probably break Evan down this much. Well, Bobby probably could have, but he never would have. Tommy hadn’t thought that Eddie was capable of it either, wasn’t he supposed to be Evan’s best friend? 

“He said I never considered what it was like for him to wake up in the middle of the night to hear about Bobby, how he had to tell Chris—”

“Who else would have told Chris?” Tommy asked and then shook his head. “Not important. Sweetheart, he wasn’t here because he moved to another state and even if he was here, it wouldn’t have made a difference. You know that. I know you know that. We did everything. Do you think I don’t question it, wonder if there had been anything at all to change? There was only one dose. The only person we can blame for all of this is Moira.” 

Evan closed his eyes. He gulped. “He’s just feeling guilty he wasn’t here.” 

“Which is not your fault and that’s him making his choices your fault, the one thing that isn’t about you. Just answer this, what difference could Eddie have made? Really?” 

Evan opened his eyes again and he nodded. “I think I know that Eddie being here wouldn’t change anything. We, uh, we got into a fight.” 

“Clearly,” Tommy said. Maybe a little too deadpan. 

Evan’s lips twitched, but then settled back into a frown. 

“I was so mad,” Evan admitted. “Figured we’d clear the air the next morning but…Anyway, I thought he left, but it turns out he just went to get Chris from Texas. Tonight I came home expecting no one to be there and instead he was there with Chris and his Aunt Pepa. So after she left, I left too and I went to the beach. I couldn’t…I couldn’t handle being there with him in that house. I still can’t go back knowing he’s still there.” 

Fuck Eddie Diaz. Had he even apologized to Evan? Had he bothered to notice that what he’d done had shaken Evan down to his core, made him question things about himself and how he was dealing after losing someone as important as Bobby was to him? Somehow, Tommy didn’t think so. 

Thinking back, Tommy didn’t know why he’d admired their friendship? Maybe because he saw how much Evan put into it? But, it didn’t seem like he got any of that back. You couldn’t give and give and give without getting anything back. Tommy had some experience with that, in fact, and he hated that he hadn’t seen that it was the dynamic between Eddie and Evan. 

“Stay here,” Tommy said. “If you don’t want to go back there, you’re always welcome here.”

Evan gave a short but thankful nod. 

Tommy squeezed his hands and then let go. 

“Tea’s going to go cold,” he muttered. 

Evan took back his mug, brought it to his lips and sighed. Drank some more. 

“It’s his house, you know? I really thought that I was finally settling into it but he’s still here and I just…it doesn’t feel like home anymore. I don’t know that it ever did.” 

Tommy didn’t know what to say. Had it been a little strange for Evan to be living in Eddie’s house? Maybe. Had Tommy maybe taken it as a sign of something that he was hoping even more than ever that he was wrong about? Probably. 

“When’s Eddie going back to Texas?” 

Evan shrugged his shoulders. “No clue. He doesn’t tell me anything. I think we was supposed to leave a couple of days after the funeral, but then he just stayed. Soon, I guess. He, uh, he got the job with the station in El Paso but I had to find out from Ravi about it because Ravi thought I already knew and because Hen was planning a surprise barbeque she didn’t bother to tell me about. That’s sort of what started the fight when I asked about it.”

Tommy probably didn’t do a good job hiding his reaction to that. 

“It’s not…it’s not just Eddie,” Evan said. “It’s all of them. I’ve tried so hard to be there for them…but they don’t like it or appreciate it or even really need me. They have each other and I’m just on the outside of that. I guess Bobby was wrong about that too. He said they would need me. They don’t.” 

“Evan,” Tommy said, “I’m sure that isn’t true.” 

Tommy couldn’t imagine the 118 splitting in any way, but then he supposed with Bobby gone that might be the thing that did create some cracks. Grief did crazy things to people. Tommy brought his own cup to his lips. It was still warm and he’d always loved the smell and taste of chamomile tea which was probably leftover from his mom loving it so much. There was comfort in it and he hoped that Evan felt that. 

“It is,” Evan said. “None of them want to talk about him or about how they’re feeling or…or anything. Hen and Chim keep just going off together while at work. I heard Chim say he doesn’t know how to build the crib for the baby and I’m right here. I know how. I did it the last time for Jee. Guess he forgot all about that. Ravi at least is trying to make things normal. I just feel like I’m floundering and none of them…none of them care.” 

“They do,” Tommy said. “You know they do. They’re your family and they’re grieving too and maybe they don’t know how to approach you because they know that you lost more than just your Captain.” 

Evan took a huge gulp of his tea, his eyes darted away, looking over the room as if Tommy had changed anything since the last time Evan had been there. He blinked away more tears. 

“How, uh, how have you been, Tommy? I’m sorry I never…I wanted to answer your messages but it just, I couldn’t.” 

Tommy allowed himself a smile. 

“I know, I figured. I’ve been alright. Sad when I think about him and about that day. God, I really wish things had gone differently. I liked Bobby a lot. Respected him even more. He was a good man, a good Captain. He made his impact felt in the 118 for anyone that worked under him, me included.” 

When they finished their tea, Tommy took both mugs back to the kitchen. Evan followed after a beat, the throw no longer around his shoulders. Tommy left the mugs in the sink, made sure the backdoor was locked and turned off the lights. 

“Are you sure I can stay here tonight?” 

“Yes. Tonight. Tomorrow. Any night, Evan. I’ll set the guest room up for you.” 

Evan shook his head. “No, you don’t have to.” 

“You’re not sleeping on the couch,” Tommy said with a chuckle. “It’s not a—”

“No,” Evan said, stepping closer towards him. “I was thinking maybe I could sleep with you?”

“Oh?” 

Pink colored Evan’s cheeks and there was a glint in his eyes that was very familiar to Tommy. 

“Just to…just to sleep,” Evan said. “I want…can you just hold me? I mean if you…that is if you’re okay with that because I can understand if you’re not and I know I just kissed you and maybe that wasn’t what you—”

His words were tangled together, coming faster and faster and Tommy stepped closer, grasped his arms gently. Evan stopped mid sentence. 

“If you need someone to hold you, my arms are right here, Evan. Come on, it’s getting late.”

It almost felt like deja vu to get ready for bed with Evan. Their shoulders brushed when they stood by the sink brushing their teeth and every once in a while their eyes would meet on the mirror. Evan’s eyes still had a sad quality to them, it wasn’t something that would leave any time soon. Tommy bumped their shoulders. 

Evan had deposited his phone on Tommy’s bedside table and at a glance he could see several missed calls and texts. 

“Do you want to answer any of these?” 

Evan shook his head. “I’ll deal with that tomorrow.” 

It was easy to arrange themselves in Tommy’s bed. Familiar. Both of them were on their side, Evan in front of him and happily snuggled into Tommy’s chest. 

“They didn’t have enough time,” Evan said. 

“Who?” 

“Bobby and Athena,” Evan said. “I keep thinking about that.” 

He wasn’t wrong. It was the tragedy of death. Tommy had seen Athena at the funeral and he had been wholly impressed by her poise, the way that she held herself together. No one would have blamed her for showing more emotion, but that just wasn’t who Athena was. He’d heard she was already back at work but that wasn’t much of a surprise and she probably needed the distraction. Tommy didn’t know what he would have done in her shoes and just thinking about it made him want to hold Evan even tighter, to bundle him up in as much protective gear as he could just to make sure that Evan came home every night. They weren’t even anything, but Tommy knew that losing Evan would devastate him.

“I was there when they met,” Tommy admitted. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah, it was a call to a stab victim, I think. Anyway, the assailant was a rooster and after Bobby captured it, he just handed it to Athena. Maurice, that was the rooster’s name.”

Evan chuckled. “Wow. Doesn’t beat taking a helicopter out into a hurricane, but…” 

Tommy rolled his eyes fondly. “Our first meeting is very unique. That was Bobby’s first week in LA.”

“I forget sometimes,” Evan said, “that you knew him from the start.”

“I did,” Tommy said. 

Evan let silence settle between them and Tommy almost thought he was asleep, but then Evan turned and they were facing each other. 

“Evan?” 

“I know it’s probably not the best time to say this, but I don’t want to waste any time when…anyway, I’m sorry for what I said that day. You know I only said it because you kinda hit a nerve insinuating I could ever have feelings for Eddie…I mean he’s my — my friend, but he’ll never be anything more than that. You know that right?” 

Evan’s hand reached up to touch his face, fingers skirting gently over his cheeks and his thumb landing on his cleft. 

“I don’t think he’s even a friend to you, not really,” Tommy said. 

He saw Evan frown, but he didn’t deny that. 

“It’s not about him,” Evan said. “I don’t want any more time to go by without you knowing how I feel because anything could happen tomorrow so…I love you, Tommy. I think I have for a while.” 

The words felt impossible. A part of him, the part that ran when things got hard and that couldn’t actually believe in the good could almost believe he’d imagined it. Evan was right there, though, inches from him. Tommy was touching him and Evan’s fingers were still on his face. Waiting. Watching him. 

“I love you too,” he responded. Knew it was true. Felt it.

“Good,” Evan said, grasping his chin. He pushed forward and kissed Tommy, just a quick sweep of his lips. It felt like a promise.

Evan burrowed his face into Tommy’s neck, yawning. It didn’t take long for him to succumb to sleep. Tommy was up just a bit longer. He felt so protective of Evan and he didn’t know what he was going to do about it when the morning came. The Evan that had arrived at his house tonight was still more than a little damaged by the loss of Bobby but worse was whatever had been happening with Eddie as well as the rest of the 118. Knowing Evan, he would forgive and move on, but that didn’t mean that Tommy had to. 

He dropped a kiss to Evan’s head and slowly drifted off. 

In the morning, Evan was still there safe and warm in his arms, but he blinked slowly awake as if realizing that someone was watching him. 

“Hi,” Evan said. 

“Hi,” Tommy repeated. “How are you?” 

Evan let out a sigh. “I don’t know, but better. It helps, having someone in my corner.” 

“I’ll always be in your corner, Evan.” 

[itseasytoremember]

[[For ease of reading, and so don't annoy everyone with more excessively long posts, I've posted the entirety of the story under the cut]]

Day 2

I feel like I'm going to want to start logging these posts. If for nothing else than a log of Things I Tried that DID NOT work. We will call this day 2 because I started writing this log yesterday. Or not yesterday, but like, last today. Yestertoday. Yestoday. This is dumb. Anyways.

My plan did not go to... Plan.

Let me explain the problem first, and then I'll explain my "plan."

A few loops ago, before I knew it was a loop, I figured I would skip my morning workout in the hopes of getting to work early, because "there was a lot of traffic on First st. these last few days" I hadn't yet realized it was always the SAME traffic.

Anyways I left early and sure enough there was no traffic. I was actually at the red when I saw the guy for the first time, he seemed distracted, he kept looking at his phone and then whipping his head around, clearly he was looking for something and, by the amount of sweat on his forehead, he had been for a while. I only really noticed the guy because every other person I could see was looking at him too. The crossing guard, the kids, their parents, the people at the cafe, everyone was looking at the dude having a really bad day. He wasn't exactly being subtle is what I'm getting at.

All of a sudden he looks across the street and gets this big relieved look, seemed to find whatever it was he was looking around for, and headed toward it. It's just unfortunate that the light had changed while he looked at his phone.

No one had time to react, to even say anything. One second twe were all watching some guy act out the 5 stages of grief at 7:35 am, the next a Ford F-150 turned him into paint.

So, my plan was this; to stop that from happening.

I'll admit it's not the most thorough plan but I figure what it lacks in steps, it makes up for in adaptability.

Today, I made it there just as the man was looking up from his phone, maybe 45 seconds later than the day before, which meant I was still early enough to get out of my car, run into the road and yell "HEY STOP" but decidedly not early enough to then avoid the fucking truck myself. Oh also, the guy still got hit. He ran onto the road, I guess to try to help me, and a BMW took his legs out. The bastard. What was he going to do? Reattach my spine?

Well I'm back in bed at home so I'll take that as suspicions: confirmed re:timeloop.

I'm going to go to work now, after that I'll figure out a plan to get to the intersection earlier.

Day 3: I'm stupid

Why the fuck was I still going to work. Yesterday I TRIED to warn my boss about his paper coffee cup having a bad seam, and when he rolled his eyes and took a sip, thus spilling coffee on himself YET again, he tried to make it MY fault. He said I somehow distracted him? I went back to my office thinking one day I should find a better way to spend my life once I'm out of this loop when it hit me, and man do I feel dumb. 9-5 for the last I don't even know how many actual days. I could have been planning. I could have been doing anything other than finance. So I quit. I mean it won't matter tomorrow but I've decided to stop going in regardless.

I'm going to spend the next few days experimenting. Currently I wake up with my alarm at 6:30, which gives me one hour to put into action my plan, my first goal is to try and extend that time as much as I can.

The morning after my brush with a pickup's grill, my neck and back were achy for about an hour, which leads me to believe that my body remembers something of the last days events, even if after a while they fade. I'm going to first try staying up all night, to see if I can just start the day at midnight, and failing that, I'm going to try the exciting plan of going to bed early and drinking loads of water, because changing my phone's alarm won't do anything as it will reset every morning anyways.

I'll make sure to keep note of anything interesting over the next few loops, but I doubt I'll make much actual progress. Still, this log ensures I remember what happened, every detail, so I can change it. why? Why not spend eternity trying to save a life.

Day 7

Okay staying up doesn't work. The second I pass midnight I pass out, waking up at my usual time, just a little more tired and sluggish than usual. I run the risk of actually sleeping through my alarm and losing precious minutes. Lacey's alarm actually woke me up the first time I tried it.

Chugging water just meant I had to rush to the bathroom when I woke up, but it was still my alarm waking me.

Weirdly, going to bed early was the the thing that did the trick. I didn't have much hope in this working, but Lacey has been going to bed early for the last 20 years of our marriage and she's always up well before her alarm, so I figured it couldn't hurt to try.

Now it's not like I'm gaining hours, but yesterday I went to bed at 9:00 pm and I'm currently writing this at 6:25 am. Is going to bed 2.5 hours early worth it for 5 extra minutes in the morning? Usually I'd say no, but this isn't a usual situation. 5 extra minutes might be the difference I need.

5 minutes does, unfortunately seem to be the max I can get though, two days ago I tried going to bed at 8:30 and all I got for it was a weird look from Lacey. If anything, It took me longer to fall asleep than at 9, and so I ended up actually sleeping in a few minutes before I realized what I was doing.

The guy steps into the path of the truck at exactly 7:35am, meaning I have 1 hour and 10 minutes to stop that from happening every day. That means prep, getting there, and execution of my plan must require a maximum of 70 minutes, including the 34 minutes it take for me to drive there.

Actually I wonder if there is a better route. I'm going to try a few different paths over the next couple loops, and keep note of which one is fastest.

Okay, my alarm just went off, I'm gonna try getting there early and just tackling the guy. Maybe I'm overthinking it and it's just that simple.

Day 8: it was NOT that simple.

So I tried just running up and tackling the guy. Apparently some people don't appreciate being, in bystanders words, "chased by a guy who ran out of his car."

So, when the guy RAN AWAY FROM THE MAN TRYING TO SAVE HIS LIFE, and INTO TRAFFIC, everyone made it seem like it was somehow MY fault, and I spent the rest of the day in a holding cell. I called Lacey to bail me out, but I couldn't reach her at work and they only allowed me one phone call. I suppose I could have sped up the wait by hanging myself in my cell or something dramatic like that but that just doesn't feel right to me.

Maybe if I keep getting arrested, sure, but it wasn't actually all that bad once the processing was done. I did what I imagine you are supposed to do in jail; I thought about what landed me in that position and how to prevent it from happening again. That left me with a few things I'm going to have to consider moving forward if I want to save this guy and also continue on with my life as normal.

Which, is still a time loop, but, again, I'm fine with routine. I'm also finding that I'm perfectly content with this situation now that I've found something interesting to do with my days. "Day". That's still annoying.

Okay here's my list of Things I Considered In Jail:

- I shouldn't resort to anything that can get me arrested, injured (or killed) or otherwise caught up in unnecessary shenanigans.

- If I get caught in a lie, remember what the person said, I can try again next time round. confidence works wonders.

- I should figure out the guys name, what he does, where he is headed etc, you are more likely to look and listen, rather than RUN INTO TRAFFIC, if the guy yelling at you is not yelling but instead calling your name, smiling and waving.

- On that note, be friendly and get there early. I was over thinking my prep and under thinking my follow through. Get up and out of bed, I can speed a little as long as I don't get pulled over, and get there and PARK your car.

Okay writing this out has given me more confidence in my next attempt. I probably won't update this log until I've made some progress.

Day 13

YES! PROGRESS!

First is that the guys name is Ben. The second, and indisputably bigger discovery, is that Ben does something different every day! Different! Meaning not looping! Or not perfectly looping at least. He’s still dying every day, which I’m not crazy about, but he definitely feels like he’s connected to the loop. It’s not anything big, but I’ve noticed he will have his phone in a different pocket from one loop to another, or he will arrive from a different direction. Recently he’s started to have this look of familiarity to me, even though before this he was a complete stranger to me.

I’ve optimised my morning routine and route to the intersection as much as possible, but Ben coming from different directions every loop means I have no way of preemptively stopping him. Just that he shows up on the south east corner looking frantic, checking his phone, he sees something, and walks across the street as the light changes. Honk boom splat and the day resets.

Actually now that I write that down it feels correct to me. I have no idea why I’m looping this one day over and over, maybe I’m not the only one. Maybe this is connected, maybe it isn’t. It doesn’t actually change anything if they are, because I still have no idea what caused this, or is saving Ben will actually do anything at all.

I’m not super proud of how I got his name to be honest. I tried to get Ben’s attention with the, “don’t I know you from somewhere?” line, but he politely excused himself from the conversation right into the path of an oncoming bus.

I was about to just run and call the cycle a bust, but I noticed that, the way the guys jacket fell, I could actually see his wallet in the breast pocket.

So… I pickpocketed a dying guy. TO SAVE HIS LIFE, still didn’t feel great. At least I didn’t get caught and end up in jail again.

Ben Morriston. He has a driver’s license and a student ID. Huh, he’s in med school. Ok doctor Ben. Nice to meet you. How do I keep you alive?

Day 21

I haven't made a log in a while because I haven't really made any progress, that is, until today. made an assumption about this that was absolutely screwing me over, but I figured out what it was and I've fixed the problem;

My mistake was being overly familiar with Ben. My first attempt at calling his name out worked to stop him, but once he asked me how I knew him he immediately sussed out that I didn't actually have an answer to that. That led him to getting really freaked out, he tried to run, he ran onto the street, and a car hit him again.

I realize now that I assumed Ben would be more receptive to someone he knew, which may be true, but I also assumed I had the ability to convince him I am someone he knows, which I don't.

So going forward I'm going to keep lying to an absolute minimum, not only because I'm bad at it, but it's unnecessary. “Hi, you look lost, can I help you?” I should also try to figure out where he's actually headed...

Day 27

Ben is going to the hospital! Not currently, I'll get to that, but that is where he is headed when I encounter him.

Ben is currently very much dead. Turns out traffic is not the only thing I need to worry about.

I had managed to both stop him from wandering into traffic and figure out his desired location, but unfortunately for both of us, we had hardly made half a block when a rogue AC unit fell out a window, filling an area of space previously occupied by poor Ben's head.

The loop before the AC unit, it was a tire that had rolled out of a mechanics shop that took him out. Before that, a falling hammer from a construction site.

The guy has fallen into the sewer because of improperly placed manhole covers, he's tripped on a rolling skateboard and broken his neck, he's been pushed into a pane of glass, and had a pane of glass fall on him. If we are both stuck in a loop he has the much worse deal. I've seen so much blood and death at this point I'm not even reacting anymore. But if I get it right even one time and he lives maybe it'll all be worth it.

Tomorrow I'm going to start wearing an ID badge I got from a conference years ago. The badge is expired but that doesn't matter, what matters is it's on a lanyard from St Joseph's hospital. The same hospital Ben is headed to.

What benefit? No one questions someone 1. With what looks like a hospital ID badge and 2. Calling them by their full legal name.

I'm not fucking around with this any more. Ben is getting in my car and I'll drive him myself to the hospital.

Day 29

Yesterday I got Ben to the hospital. He listened to me, got into the car, and I drove him there without a hitch.

He thanked me repeatedly and ran inside, and I followed him in just to make sure the whole building didn't explode or something.

Turns out Ben needed to get to the hospital because his wife was in labor. He made it just in time. Him, his wife, the baby, everyone was safe and sound.

I was in the waiting room, i didn't want to be in anyone's way but it didn't feel right leaving, so I was just sitting there when Ben ran into the hallway to get me.

Ben thanked me again, he hugged me and told me he was so happy I could be there with him. He looked at me and it was like I had known him his entire life. I told him truthfully that I was so happy I could help get where he was going, and that he should go be with his family. He insisted that he was, and asked if I wanted to meet his son.

It was an odd but beautiful moment, and I'm happy I was allowed to experience it. Afterwards, I went home to Lacey, and we went to bed.

The loop didn't end. I woke up with my alarm to find that everything was back as it was yesterday. That's fine with me. I'm going to go pick Ben up now, and I think after that I'll surprise Lacey with lunch at work. You, the thing they don't tell you about being stuck in a time loop is it's really not all that bad.

---

A newspaper obituary:

Joseph Duncan Morriston, Toronto, age 89, died peacefully at St Joseph's hospital, surrounded by his family and friends. Joe was always a kind soul who, after witnessing a catastrophic car accident, left a lucrative career on finance to become an EMT, where he saved countless lives and developed several procedures himself that are now considered best practices in care and ambulance driving.

Joe is survived by his son, Dr. Ben Morriston, and his grandson, Duncan Morrison, who was delivered at St Josephs just two days before Joe's passing.

Joe will interred at St James cemetery beside his wife, Lacey Morriston (1935-2023).

A public celebration of life will be held at the Etobicoke community centre, with anyone whose life was touched by Joe being welcome to come and share a story with the family.

Joe's family has kindly requested that, in lieu of flowers, those inclined may donate to the Alzheimer's Association of Canada.

---

UPDATE FOR OBITUARY POSTED YESTERDAY JOSEPH MORRISTON:

DUE TO AN OUTPOURING OF FEEDBACK BY THOSE JOE HAS HELPED, THE CELEBRATION OF LIFE HAS BEEN MOVED TO THE HARBORFRONT CENTRE, WHICH HAS BEEN KINDLY DONATED BY THE CITY, TO ACCOMMODATE THE LARGER CROWD EXPECTED.

The Thing They Don't Tell You About Being Stuck in a Time Loop

The first time round the time loop was honestly fine. Same with the second and the third. Honestly I didn't even realize i was in a time loop until day 7 or 8, and that was because the statistical chances of my boss spilling his coffee on himself, while in and of itself is not low, became exceedingly strained as the days went on.

But if it weren't for that, I probably would have never realised I was looping. Mock me all you like, I enjoy routine, I thrive with it, and so, yes, it may have taken me a little longer to realize my day was looping, but I would also argue that I am much less likely to succumb to some sort of mental break due to this situation. To some, I could imagine being stuck in a loop of one day would get boring, or even horrifying, I am not one of those people. Not only that, I was lucky enough to be stuck in a loop of a day in mid May, with decent weather, in my home city, with the woman I love. If it weren't for the fact that it's a work day, It would be perfect.

That and the man who keeps getting hit by cars.

The first time it happened I didn't notice. I feel terrible saying that but the first few days I was still going through things as though it was a normal day, and normally I take about 60 minutes from wakeup to leaving the house for work, which meant that by the time I would make it to the intersection where it happened, the car had been moved to the side of the road, and all I dealt with was a bit of traffic.

It wasn't until I started testing the parameters of the loop, breaking my routine, that I figured out what even caused the accident, but more on that later. For now, I have a plan to try and save this guy. I don't know why, but I feel like that's important. That he's important.

And I mean, what do I have to lose? Some time?

[skyguytoast]

hi there!

I LOVE your Anakin and Hayden works, they're so well written and I just get lost in this universe you pull me into 👏🏻🥰

I was wondering if you had the time if you'd be able to make headcanons for a Hayden Christensen x kinda chubby younger girlfriend reader?

Thanks! Xoxo

HAYDEN CHRISTENSEN X CHUBBY!READER HEADCANONS

WARNING: none, just cuteness A/N: hiiii my loves, how are you doing?? So, when I got this request, it really made me stop and think at first, I was like “wait, is there even a difference between dating someone who's thin or chubby?” cuz in my head love is love 💕BUT then I realized that assuming everything’s the same can actually be a bit careless 🥲 so I took a step back and reflected with lots of love and care. Anywayyyy I hope you like it and please keep sending requests because I get so excited every time!! I love love love hearing from you all!! also didn't know if you want smut or no

Hayden fell for you long before you realized it. The first thing that caught him wasn’t your body, it was your laugh, your warmth, the way your cheeks lifted when you smiled. You were sunshine to him, warm and lovely.

His jaw always dropped when you wore those curve-hugging dresses you were unsure about. When you nervously mentioned the way your belly folded or how it clung “too much,” he just looked at you with that quiet intensity and said, “That’s my favorite part.”

When Hayden returned to training for Vader, he loved how strong it made him feel when he could pick you up effortlessly. He adored the way you’d squeal and laugh when he lifted you during a TikTok challenge you dragged him into (even though he had no idea what half of them meant).

That day you tried on one of his sweatshirts expecting it to be oversized, only for it to feel snug, broke your heart a little. But Hayden noticed the way your smile dimmed. That night, he sat beside you, handed you a softer, roomier hoodie from a Star Wars event in Tokyo, kissed your forehead, and told you, “It’s not about what fits you. It’s about what makes you feel safe.”

Hayden leaves love notes in your snack drawers. You’ll go for a cookie and find “Your thighs are art, don't argue” written on a sticky note in his handwriting. He knows how tempting it is to try those crazy diets that society seems to push on you, and he doesn't want you to fall into a black hole of insecurities and compromise your health.

Hayden always takes the pictures you feel cute in — no “suck it in,” no weird angles. And when you ask, “Do I look okay in this?” He simply says, “You always look beautiful, baby.” His lock screen is a picture of you in a tight white dress that hugs all the right places, highlighting your cute cleavage and the little folds of your tummy.

Hayden gently nudges you away from negative self-talk. When you get caught in a spiral, he doesn’t dismiss you, he listens, holds your hand, and says, “I know the world tries to make you feel like you’re ‘too much.’ But you’re everything to me.”

You once caught him reading body positive essays and plus-size fashion blogs. When you asked why, he shrugged and said, “If I want to love you well, I need to understand." Because Hayden knows how easy it is to fall into those toxic positivity conversations, reinforcing stereotypes and prejudices instead of validating your beauty.

He always encourages you to eat what you want when you go out, especially when you hesitate. “Life’s short,” he whispers with a smirk. “And that cheesecake’s flirting with us.” Hayden cares about your food, knowing that making food the villain will only bring guilt, give space to eating disorders and reinforce the idea that food is the villain.

Whenever someone online makes an ignorant comment, you never have to see it, because Hayden’s already blocked, reported, and moved on. “You don’t owe the internet your pain,” he says. He doesn't have social media, but he knows how tough the internet is, and he does everything he can to make sure you don't have to deal with insults and stupid comments.

______________________________________________________________

TAGLIST: @ihearthayden @anakinstwinklebunny @sometimescharlolette @awhhayden @dessxoxsworld @throughparisallthroughrome @freudsweetlamb

______________________________________________________________

[godricgryffinsnore]

Heyyyyyy Della!

I have a request, go on if you want.

Here it goes:

Y/n is a transfer student from any random country/magic school and her and Hermione are immediate friends because of shared traits.

The thing is- Harry and her have a 'I love you but I will pretend I hate you' relationship.

If you actually write it — I am goddamn excited.

Yours,

V ;༊

She Came in Like Thunder ♡ : A Harry Potter Fan Fiction.

pairing : Harry Potter x fem!reader

summary : A fiery transfer student shakes up Hogwarts, instantly bonding with Hermione and clashing with Harry in a whirlwind of witty insults, stolen glances, and unresolved tension. Amid snowy chaos, glittering banter, and accidental confessions, two love-struck idiots slowly realize that maybe “hate” was just their favorite disguise for love.

warnings : Light profanity, Mild magical mischief, Flirty insults / teasing, Excessive pining and fluff, Secondhand embarrassment from two idiots in love, Truth potion chaos, Mentions of blushing, kissing, and heart-thumping feelings. Please let me know if I missed any.

author's note : English is not my first language, so please forgive me for any grammatical errors or spelling errors. Re-blogging is completely fine with me, but please don't copy my work. I love you all. Enjoy <3.

della's note : I was giggling and laughing the entire time when I was plotting out this request. I hope you do enjoy it <3 AND THANK YOU FOR REQUESTING!!!

word count : 0.9k

main master list <3

banners : @fawndollie and @saradika-graphics

Hogwarts had seen its fair share of chaos: trolls in bathrooms, flying cars, Quidditch riots, and Fred and George Weasley’s existence in general. But it was woefully unprepared for you.

You arrived on a rainy Tuesday morning with wind in your coat and fire in your stride, eyes sharp as phoenix flame. A transfer from Castelobruxo, the Brazilian wizarding school nestled in the jungle—where students tamed magical beasts before breakfast and performed wandless magic with the grace of dancers.

You were thunder wrapped in charm.

Hermione Granger liked you immediately.

“She reads three books a week and corrects professors when they misquote theory,” she whispered in awe to Harry at breakfast. “We’re practically soulmates.”

Harry, whose spoon had been halfway to his mouth, dropped it and scowled.

“Brilliant,” he muttered. “Another overachiever. As if one wasn’t enough.”

Ron blinked. “Jealous much?”

“No,” Harry snapped too quickly. “She just… looks like she’d hex someone for sneezing too loudly.”

“She saved Neville from a rogue Bludger yesterday.”

“She also called me ‘Scarboy Supreme’ in the library.”

Hermione hummed. “Yes, but she smiled when she said it.”

And that was the problem.

Because every time you tossed a smug quip Harry’s way, you smiled like a secret. And Harry, poor boy, kept falling for it.

── .✦

You were infuriating.

You hummed while working, corrected his wand grip without asking, and once said, "Your disarming spell is cute. Like a kitten trying to roar."

You left feathers in his inkpot. Charmed his robes to sing Celestina Warbeck when he got too cocky. You always looked too amused, too untouched by his scowls.

And the worst part?

You were brilliant. Better than him in Charms. Equally sharp in Defense. Fast on a broom. And you laughed like the sun got caught in your throat.

Harry couldn’t stand it.

He also couldn’t look away.

── .✦

“She’s annoying.”

“You’re in love with her,” Hermione said simply, not looking up from Advanced Arithmancy.

Harry sputtered. “Excuse me?”

“Anyone with a functioning brain can see it,” she added, underlining a line. “You hate her like a Victorian poet hates the moon—loudly, obsessively, while penning love sonnets behind a curtain.”

Ron choked on his biscuit. “He what?”

“I do not write sonnets!”

“Please,” Hermione said dryly. “You literally wrote ‘Her eyes are like bottled lightning’ in the margins of your Transfiguration notes.”

Harry turned red.

“That was metaphorical!”

“Sure, Potter.”

── .✦

And then came the snowball incident.

It was the first snowfall of December. Students frolicked. Couples kissed under enchanted mistletoe. Hogwarts looked like a greeting card. And you were perched on a bench in the courtyard, scarf draped like you were posing for an autumn fashion catalogue.

Harry was watching you again.

He didn’t mean to. His eyes just gravitated toward you like they were bewitched.

You were reading—of course you were—and twirling your wand in that dangerous way that made boys stupid and girls swoon. He scowled.

You looked up.

Smirked.

And flicked your wand.

BAM—a snowball slapped him directly across the face.

Harry sputtered. You grinned.

“Oh dear,” you said sweetly. “Did I hit something important?”

He stomped over, red-cheeked, snow in his hair. “You are a menace.”

“And you are terrible at ducking.”

“You did that on purpose.”

“I know,” you said, too brightly. “Because I like seeing you flustered.”

Harry opened his mouth. Closed it. Considered his life choices.

And then, before he could talk himself out of it, he flung a snowball at you.

It missed.

You laughed.

God, that laugh.

Harry swore his heart was no longer his own.

── .✦

Later that evening…

“You’re smiling,” Hermione said, her eyes not leaving her book.

“No, I’m not.”

“Snow in your hair. Glitter on your robes. And you’re humming. Harry, be serious.”

Ron nodded solemnly. “Only two people make you this weird: Cho Chang and Butterbeer. And you don’t look sticky.”

Harry buried his face in his arms. “I hate her.”

“You love her.”

“Do not.”

“She called you pretty.”

“She called me a sentient broomstick.”

“She also asked you to walk her to the Owlery.”

Harry groaned. “She made me walk her to the Owlery. Said I had ‘stalker energy’ and might as well make myself useful.”

“And you went.”

“…Shut up.”

── .✦

Confession came by accident.

Well, by accident and a rogue Truth Charm gone wrong during Slughorn’s New Year’s Party.

“Tell us your deepest desire,” Seamus challenged Harry with a giggle, waving the glittering vial.

“Don’t drink that—” Hermione warned.

But it was too late.

Harry, flustered, dramatic, utterly cursed, downed the potion like an idiot.

“I’m in love with her,” he blurted.

The room froze.

“Merlin’s pants,” Ron whispered.

Harry looked horrified. “I mean, I hate her. Violently. With feelings. That live in my chest. Like traitors.”

You—standing nearby—blinked.

Then walked right up to him.

And kissed him.

It was soft. Hot. Terrifying.

Like finally touching fire you’ve stared at too long.

“God,” you whispered. “You’re so slow, Potter.”

“You knew?” he asked, dazed.

“I've been in love with you since you tripped over your shoelaces and called me a 'hex-hazard.'”

Harry smiled.

He was doomed.

He was delighted.

── .✦

The Aftermath

You still called him Scarface. He still charmed your books to hum. But now, there were stolen kisses in hidden alcoves, smirks behind held hands, and whispered “I love you” spoken like dares.

“I still hate you,” he said once, breathless, forehead against yours.

“I hate you more,” you replied, kissing him again.

And somehow, that meant forever.

[fuckyeahisawthat]

I went back and looked at these scenes before writing my first reblog, because I couldn't remember exactly who knew what. The only person we know for sure has been in the lab with Jayce and Viktor is Mel. Their conversation implies she's been there more than once. Is she visiting in part to keep an eye on Jayce's mental state? Yeah probably. Did she have a "Jayce wtf. Jayce are you SURE about this" moment the first time she saw Viktor in the goo? Yeah probably. Sure, we could've seen that conversation, but that's not the emotional/narrative beat the writers chose to emphasize. (And like, even if she'd made the argument that Jayce isn't a medical doctor and Viktor should be in a hospital, do you think Jayce would've been receptive? Absolutely the fuck not.) And out of all the people who know Jayce, other than Viktor himself, Mel is probably the person most confident in Jayce's ability to pull off some insane unprecedented scientific feat AND she's willing to keep a secret for him if that's what he wants.

Caitlyn does ask about Viktor so she seems to know some of what's going on:

I highly doubt she's been to the lab, though. She's absorbed in her own grief and it's implied that she and Jayce have barely spoken since her mother's death. Neither of them is in a state to pay much attention to the other at that point.

I also think there are some genre/worldbuilding conventions that have to be taken into account here. We're in a steampunk world with strong Gothic elements. We're in "Viktor as in Frankenstein" mad scientist territory. They're scientists who work with magic in a world that seems to still have more or less 19th-century medical norms. (Paramedics, ambulances, advance directives, any kind of electronic health monitors, the modern concept of protected health information, and talk therapy are among the things I think they have never heard of.) So YES IT'S WEIRD for Jayce to have his maybe-dead bestie floating in the magic sourdough starter in their lab. But it's in a different context than our modern world; people aren't going to react to it the same way.

There is also just a general motif in season 2 of fracture and chaos. Almost every interpersonal relationship that's strong in s1 gets broken. Jayce and Mel, Jayce and Viktor, Cait and Vi, Vi and Jinx--they all have fallings-out and/or spend significant portions of the season apart from each other, often alone. So I don't think it's particularly surprising that we don't see a lot of the character interactions we might expect, and I don't think it's sloppy writing. It's consistent with what the rest of the season is doing.

crazy to me how everyone in jayce & viktor's lives are bad friends because if i found out my pal was keeping the refrigerated corpse of his dead-in-a-terrorist-attack boyfriend within a mysterious and unexplained suspension of holographic goop. i'd say SOMETHING

like, mel, vi, and cait all knew jayce was doing the nonconsensual necromancy thing and were cool with it. like didn't question viktor's agency in the matter, didn't recommend a therapist, just dealt with their own plot stuff. vi came in trying to get some gloves, saw a suspended glowing cadaver, went "ok" and moved on with her day

[gamerbot-22]

🎰 Foolish Words🌿

Contains: Aventio <3, banter, teasing, new-ish relationship, these two idiots are so very dumb and so very in love, they’re also horrible at communicating but are working on it, a bit of Aventurine Backstory Flavored Trauma, a lil suggestive but no blatant NSFW, a variety of smooches, Aven is described as having some melanin, barely proofread and I appreciate spellchecks!

Word Count: 4,940

A/N: The boys won the poll!! And by a fucking landslide, might I add, they had a little over half the votes lol. This was partially inspired by this post by @/qinsens because… oh my god it’s so cute, I love it. ALSO HOLY FUCK THE WORD COUNT--

Likes and Reblogs appreciated (reblogs > likes) and Requests are Open! Read this story on Ao3 here! Buy me a Ko-Fi here!

Related Work: Something Sweet for Someone… Sweet?

The dividers in this post were made by @/gamerbot-22 (me!) ���

© All rights reserved by miHoYo

Veritas Ratio isn't supposed to care.

That's the myth, legend, rumor, whatever-you-want-to-call-it that's been spread around across the Galaxy. Dr. Veritas Ratio, like most geniuses, would-be or otherwise, is not supposed to care about people. He's meant to care only about math and science, with humans only coming up in the biological, and maybe psychological sense, as little points of data in a sea of variables. Even the people close to him held that belief. Veritas remembers the look of shock in his peers' eyes when he brought gifts for holidays, simple but meticulously thought-out, or remembered the drink preferences of acquaintances when research sessions ran long.

It's been like this for years, and ironically enough, Veritas has stopped caring for the most part. It's not his fault that his affection doesn't come with the coddling, flowery words that everyone seems to worry so much about. The words aren't the important part, it's the doing that matters.

...So then why has he felt so strange calling Aventurine "gambler" recently?

"You'll catch your death of cold," Veritas murmurs.

With no ceremony he stands closer to Aventurine, bringing him under the canopy of the doctor's umbrella. The rain isn't beating down, per se, but they've been walking back home for a while now, and Aventurine is beginning to resemble a soaked kitten, even with his jacket pulled up to cover his head.

"Aw, Doctor," Aventurine nearly coos in that honey-sweet tone of his. "I didn't think you cared."

Veritas huffs to himself, turning his gaze back to the street ahead. The puddles in front of them dazzle like stars, reflecting back street lights and glowing signs in shop windows. It seems much warmer in all these little cafes and hobby stores, but they'll be home soon enough with their own latte and mug of black coffee, so it's not worth getting distracted now.

"I don't want you sneezing late into the night." Aventurine is always miserable when he's sick, and unfortunately even the Genius Society hasn't found a cure for the common cold. "You won't get any sleep."

Aventurine rolls his eyes, letting annoyance slip through for just a moment before that showy glimmer returns to his jewel-coloured gaze. It always turns into a lecture...

The blonde lets his soaked-through coat fall back onto his shoulders, idly teasing the fur trim around the collar in an attempt to look decent despite the pathetic veneer the rain has given him. "If I start sneezing, I can just sleep out on the sofa with the cats, you know." He says it in an almost chipper way, like he's excited at the idea of sleeping apart from Veritas for once. "Save you the headache of fussing over me."

Veritas' brows pinch as he holds the curved handle of his umbrella a little tighter. "That's not necessary. It's..." He can't believe he's about to say this, and that it makes him pause. "It's your bed, as well. You have just as much right to lay sick in it as I do."

"So you'll take the couch then?" There's a certain pride in the way Aventurine cocks his head back to look up at his companion, like he's won a game that Veritas didn't know they'd been playing. It doesn't help that a bookstore's warm lighting makes his tanned skin shine like gold around the curve of his cheek.

Veritas sighs deeply, hoping that the golden light isn't making the heat rising to his face any more obvious than it already feels. "No, because it's my bed, too. It's our bed, gambler." The doctor feels his stomach sink.

Aventurine shrugs. Veritas watches as his pride melts into something closer to neutral as he reaches to hold the umbrella himself, gloved fingers resting over alabaster knuckles, and gently tugs his companion along down the shining sidewalk. "Well, I'll be less likely to ruin our precious sleep the sooner we get back home. I want out of these wet clothes..."

There's not much more talking the rest of the way to their flat, but there are echoes inside Veritas' head all the same. He's been calling Aventurine "gambler" since they met, and never once has he thought twice about it. It was an accurate moniker -- still is, of course -- and Aventurine has never said a genuine thing about it. In fact, it wasn't like he was any better, calling Veritas every variation of "doctor" he can think up, and for all the rolling eyes and quiet huffs, Veritas doesn't mind that much either.

So then why has Veritas been thinking about it all day?

His thoughts only move on when he feels Aventurine squeeze his hand idly.

They get home with no fuss, as usual. Veritas sheathes his umbrella in the woven holder by the door while Aventurine kicks off his shoes, letting them clatter to the side as he peels his jacket off. It's dripping rain water all over the floor, and he only makes it worse when he balls up his jacket to more easily carry it off to the washer. "I'll mop it up in a second!" He calls before anyone can get the chance to tell him to.

Another huff, this time with a little smile for just himself as Veritas steps out of his shoes and politely trades them in for the house slippers he keeps by the door. On rainy days like this, the floor gets uncomfortably cold unless the oven is going in the kitchen, and these were rather nice protection against that.

"I'm making coffee." Veritas calls over his shoulder. He takes a left to go from the little entry hallway across the back corner of their open living room, then goes around the standing money plant that Aventurine still hasn't found a better place for right into the kitchen. He's already got the machine running, lining up their favorite mugs when he hears Aventurine's footsteps approaching.

"Coffee at this hour?" He asks, his smile audible as he rounds the square island in the middle of the kitchen to stand beside his housemate. "And you were worried about ruining our sleep."

Aventurine is in his pajamas already, which is hardly surprising considering how thoroughly drenched he'd gotten from walking four blocks in the rain. He has one of their little towels from the bathroom in his hands to help dry his hair, which has gone from a bright, flaxen colour to a sort of copper shade from the water. It actually doesn't look half bad on him.

"A little coffee won't kill us," Veritas returns. In the comfort of their own home, he doesn't shy away from reaching to brush a lock of Aventurine's damp hair behind his ear. "And you need something warm after trailblazing through the rain."

Aventurine's head lulls into the doctor's hand, letting out a single, solitary note of a pleased hum that makes Veritas hum back with a little quirk at the corner of his lips. His warm, broad palm is a welcome change from the cold rain, and it actually takes quite a bit of control for Aventurine not to just go full cat and nuzzle into his companion’s touch.

“You spoil me, Doc.”

“One would argue it’s my job to.”

Aventurine’s eyes flash like jewels. “And would you?”

Heat pools in the doctor’s face.

Veritas’ attention is pulled away by the soft chime of the coffee maker. He had gone out of his way all those months ago, when the two were first moving in together, to get a machine that didn’t make that blasted beeping noise Aventurine’s cat cakes hated so much, and by pure stroke of luck, he found this model. Of course, Veritas is more pleased with the fact that it makes damn good coffee, but the gentle melody it sings once it’s finished is a plus for even him in this moment.

Aventurine lets out a sigh as Veritas turns away. He drapes his soft towel around his neck and watches, idly, as the good doctor pours most of the rich coffee into his own mug, and then about half as much into Aventurine’s.

“What gives?” He asks, tilting his head with a wry smile pulling at his lips. “Only a little bit for me?”

“You don’t take your coffee black,” Veritas replies matter-of-factly. “I’m saving room for milk.”

Aventurine huffs a laugh to himself and leans closer, prodding a bit at Veritas’ personal space with that same casual playfulness he always displays. “You’re being so nice to me tonight, Doc. Is there some kind of special occasion I’m forgetting about?”

The doctor looks down at his companion with a sort of unreadable expression, save for the obvious confusion pinching his brows together. “Am I not nice to you, Aventurine?”

He plays off Veritas’ confusion with a shrug, running his thin fingers through his flaxen hair in a horribly unsubtle act of preening. “You are. You just normally don’t do so much in a straight shot like this. Makes me think you’re after something.”

“Gambler—“

Aeons curse him, there he goes again—

“Are you after something?” Aventurine hums, boldly swooping into Veritas’ personal space now. He walks the doctor back a step or so, leaning forward so he’s hovering just a few precious inches away from his chest. “Because, you know you can just ask.”

He has this uncanny ability to catch Veritas off guard and one day, the doctor swears it’ll actually drive him crazy. He shuts his eyes and sighs, letting his brain take a second to just… take stock of all the feelings that are welling up inside him. There’s the warmth of having Aventurine so close, as well as the annoyance of being caught off guard so easily, and underneath all of that is that same strange guilt that’s been plaguing him all day, brought on by that slip of the tongue, the use of the name “Gambler” for yet another time.

“Actually…” Veritas says, exhaling deeply. “I do have something I’d like to ask you.”

“Yes?” Aventurine cocks his head to the other side, only moving closer to Veritas with that proud, Cheshire smile. He can see the usually straight-laced doctor fighting to keep himself level, and it’s giving him endless joy, as it always does.

Veritas sighs again and opens his red eyes, looking right into his partner’s face. “Would you mind getting your milk from the fridge while I get the stove going?”

Aventurine blinks owlishly, his smile dropping. “That’s it?” It’s almost not even a question, just a bewildered statement.

“Yes.”

He backs up, standing straight now with a pout on his face so slight he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. “…Fine. Sure, I can get you the milk from the fridge.”

Aventurine turns on his heels like a little tin soldier and struts right over to the big, shining appliance to open it up. As he does an entirely unnecessary scan of its contents, he allows himself a moment to think, although stew would probably be a more apt description.

Veritas has been like this all day. He’s been physically present, which of course Aventurine knows he should be grateful for -- and he is -- but more often than not his dear doctor’s attention has been miles away. Usually when Veritas isn’t paying attention to Aventurine, he’s obviously thinking, his head in one hand and his brows knit together as he turns theory over formula over variable in search of an answer, but lately it’s just been distant staring off into the horizon, with his arms crossed tight over his chest or his fingers twiddling at his side. It’s unlike him.

That plus his advances being so soundly reject is starting to make Aventurine’s stomach sink. Was it something he’d done?

The clicking of the stove off to his right brings Aventurine back to his body. He quickly shakes his head and gives a little wave with his free hand to dismiss the thoughts. ‘Stop being needy, Kakavasha,’ he scolds himself in his head, then he grabs the carton of milk from the fridge door and shuts it a little harder than he means to.

“Here you are, Doc,” Aventurine says flatly, swinging the carton casually up onto the granite counter. He nudges it closer to Veritas both for ease of access and to free up some space for him to lean as he watches his latte get made.

“Thank you—“ Veritas obviously cuts himself short. It doesn’t take Aventurine, with his honed-by-experience skill of reading people’s voices and body language to notice that.

Neither man says anything. Veritas just pours the milk into the waiting pot on the stove while Aventurine stares, no better than a bonded cat.

The silence is agony on Aventurine’s mind. His bag of tricks has been thoroughly emptied out for the night, leaving him feeling a touch vulnerable in the light of his own kitchen. Everything he’s tried so far has simply been redirected, if not shut down right away, and now Veritas can’t even spare the breath to say a sentence naturally. It’s crazy to think and Aventurine knows it, but the sinking feeling in his gut is only serving to remind him that nothing good in his life has ever lasted for very long.

“You’re staring.” The doctor’s low, cool voice cuts through the tension.

He blinks, then huffs, turning his face away from his companion. “Am not.”

“You are.” Veritas is a little more insistent now as he flicks the stove top off. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” Aventurine brings his towel back up to his hair, trying to pat it dryer than it already is. “There is absolutely nothing the matter with me.”

Veritas takes a breath. For a g— for a man who gambles so often, Aventurine has such obvious tells when he’s in distress. His voice becomes much more measured, his eyes flick elsewhere, and the brilliant, loud, peacocking persona that Aventurine thrives in shrinks away into near nothing, leaving only a very tense looking young man in its absence.

Veritas saw it happen once in Penacony. He hates seeing it happen again in their home.

The doctor carefully brings Aventurine’s mug closer to the stove. It’s much more novel than his own, sporting a shape not unlike the cat cakes snoozing in their tower back in the two’s shared bedroom. It’s not Veritas’ style, personally, but he’s always thought it was cute in its own way.

He adds the milk to the coffee, not bothering with any of the bells and whistles that can be found in the cafe two doors down, and carefully holds it out to Aventurine.

Now’s as good a time as any to say something sweeter.

“Here you are, love.”

Aventurine takes his mug in one hand, turning his head back towards his companion. “Thank y—“

His breath hitches. Or maybe he gasps. Does the difference even matter, now that heat is pooling into Aventurine’s cheeks like swirling steam from the stove top. All he knows is that that single word — that pet name — has hit him like a truck and it’s taking every ounce of his focus not to drop his coffee or keel over or do anything else that would further embarrass himself.

Veritas wonders if Aventurine might be broken now. “Darling, are you—?”

“Aaah! A-haha, I heard you the first time!” Aventurine sets his mug down and brings a hand up to his face, although he’s not sure if he should cover his eyes or his mouth or his whole face as he teeters back a step. His heart is pounding in his ears like a drum as both those words swirl in his mind. “Oh, that’s—!”

Even with his tanned skin, Veritas can see his cheeks darkening. The doctor is really starting to wonder if he did something wrong. He reaches to touch Aventurine’s shoulder, only for his partner to fully turn on his heels again, hand pressed tight over his mouth.

He’s only facing away for a moment before he spins right back around, his jewel-coloured eyes wide and shining and his smile trembling with barely contained energy as he warbles out “Is that why you were being quiet all day?”

Veritas pulls his hand back, a bit sheepish himself. “You noticed?”

“Of course I noticed!" There is precious little that Aventurine wouldn't notice, Veritas should have figured that out by now. "I thought I did something wrong!”

“What? You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“That’s what I thought but then you kept getting all—“ Aventurine makes a vague gesture with both of his hands, really lending to the frazzled, indescribable look on his face. This is getting impossible.

"Alright, all of that doesn't matter." Ever expressive, Aventurine tosses the conversation off to the side, dismissing it almost entirely save for the cause of all this. "Were you spending all that time coming up with what pet name to call me?"

He's never seen Veritas get so red in the face so fast. Usually his blushing was reserved solely for the tips of his ears, but it seems to have breached containment into his cheeks and neck.

"Well..." Veritas plucks up his own mug of coffee and brings it to his lips, desperately trying to come across as the sane, sophisticated Genius Aventurine knew him as. Or, well... Knew him as on paper.

"I felt that it was only appropriate," he finally settled on saying after sneaking a quick sip. He's been thrown, slightly, by Aventurine's reaction to something as seemingly normal as being called "darling" and "love," but he's good at explaining, so a recovery is possible, yes? "We live together, we work together, we... are partners, are we not? Partners call one another things sweeter than just 'gambler.'"

Aventurine looks away again, turning his head over his shoulder to try and breathe without having to meet Veritas' eyes to do it. He knows it's normal. Of course it's normal. He's heard all those ridiculous, cliched nicknames thrown around all his life. The "Darling"s, the "Love"s, the "Honey"s, everything. He's been called them himself, even, but never like this. Hearing "darling" pass so effortlessly from Veritas' lips, like it was no more special than the latte -- or, really, the coffee with warm milk -- that he had passed to him. It wasn't like the "sweetheart"s that have been tossed at him casually by overly-chummy clients or... the "precious"es that still come to haunt his dreams at times. This feels warmer. Realer. It's almost too much all at once and it's only two blasted words.

It's so unlike him to be quiet. Veritas sets his mug back down and takes a single step forwards. "...Have I upset you, Aventurine?" Even if he despises a pet name, Veritas is not going to go back to calling him 'gambler.' Not when he's become someone he worries about upsetting.

Aventurine turns back quickly. His face is still red, but his smile is calmer now, less indescribably manic. "No, Doctor, you haven't upset me. This is just something that requires adjusting to."

Veritas' brows furrow in confusion again. "'Requires adjusting to...?' Since when have you--"

"Look, this is all just a bit out of my wheelhouse." Aventurine can hear the corporate language spilling out of his mouth and it's taking every ounce of his focus not to cringe. "Mind if we just... circle back to this in the morning?"

"Er... Alright?" Veritas decides to take Aventurine at his word, a decision based entirely on the fact that he has never heard Aventurine use phrases like "out of my wheelhouse" and "circle back" in the comforts of his own home. He clearly needs some time to gather himself. This is what Veritas gets for catching Aventurine off guard.

The Doctor sighs. "Do you want to finish your coffee? Or are you done for the night?"

Oh, he'd almost forgotten--

Aventurine picks up his mug, giving it an idle swirl before swinging it up to his lips and taking a quick gulp. His head's still going about a thousand miles a minute, but his drink's still a little warm, and it's been carefully prepared by someone he does care deeply for, so it helps. Just a little. He does know his limits though, and offers the drink back for Veritas to take. The doctor takes it carefully, and dumps it and the remainder of his own down the kitchen sink. It's a waste, maybe, but that thought isn't at the forefront of either of their minds.

The two head off to bed together in awkward silence. Veritas, as always, gathers up his pajamas and heads off to get changed in the bathroom, leaving Aventurine to sit at the edge of their bed with his beloved cat cakes. Without his gloves on, the strategist can't hide the fading callouses on his fingertips, but his pets never seemed to mind, purring under his touch all the same like the sweet little radiators they were. He looks down at the cake sitting in his lap, leaning back on one hand and tilting his head to better meet its innocent yellow eyes. Speaking to it would do very little for his nerves, but he can pretend that they are having a fulfilling little conversation as he waited for Veritas to come out.

So he waits.

And waits.

And waits some more.

Aventurine sighs and moves to lay on his back on top of the blankets, dragging his pet along with him to rest on his chest. "I hope you haven't drowned in there, Doctor!" He calls, running his fingers through his cat's short, black fur.

"Don't be crass." Veritas calls back. Aventurine only chuckles to himself.

"Hurry up! Or the cats and I will claim the whole bed for ourselves!"

Veritas rolls his eyes. Beds, again? He takes a deep breath and steps out of the bathroom, his hair brushed and face washed and the nice pajama set Aventurine gifted him fitting him as well as it always does.

"You wouldn't dare," he greets as he flicks the bathroom light off behind him. Living in the city their bedroom is never quite dark, even so late at night and pouring rain, so it's easy for Veritas to find his way. All he has to do is move towards the silvery line of streetlights that outlines each wrinkle in the covers, most of them drawing back to where Aventurine is laying on top of them.

"We would if you had taken another minute." Even with the air so heavy, it's much too easy to slip right back into their usual banter.

Veritas kneels one leg on his side of the bed, tossing back the covers as best he can with Aventurine weighing them down. He sighs. "Darling, could you-- hm."

He almost expects Aventurine to laugh again, to sit bolt upright and start spewing that corporate swill he defaulted too out of nerves, but instead he's quiet.

And he moves.

Aventurine gets up off of the bed, cat cake cradled to his chest, and draws back the covers as well, leaving the bed primed and ready for the two to crawl into and rest after such an eventful day.

"Now who's staring, Doc?"

Veritas hadn't even noticed. When he glances away, Aventurine chuckles a little harder than he normally would.

The sheets are cool to the touch as they lay down together, and despite the awkwardness that lingers from just moments before, Veritas still opens his arms and Aventurine still nestles between them, letting the cat move to its place at the foot of the bed. The two lovers lay there, quiet and still for only a minute before--

"I didn't mean to upset you--"

"Sorry I got all weird on you--"

They both stop. Veritas chuckles dryly and Aventurine feels some heat rise into his face again. "You go first, Doc."

"Alright." Veritas nestles in closer to their pillows and almost shyly slips the hand that had been resting between Aventurine's shoulder blades up to the back of his head, running his alabaster fingers through his pale golden hair. "I upset you earlier. When I called you darling. I didn't mean to and... I'm sorry."

Aventurine leans into his touch, resting his forehead against Veritas' chin. "You didn't upset me, you just... caught me off guard. I'm not used to you calling me stuff like that."

"Did you not like it?"

"No, that's not it..." Aventurine shakes his head gently, just so Veritas can feel it. "It's just... I don't know. A lot of things. All at once. It made me sort of panic and I said some strange things."

Veritas makes a gesture with both hands, lifting a few fingers but not removing them from Aventurine's hair and waist. "You did say some odd things. I felt like I was in a business meeting for a moment--"

"Alright, quit teasing me, I already feel like dying--"

Aventurine feels his doctor's arms squeeze him in silent apology, a rumbling laugh in his chest.

"So," Veritas murmurs into Aventurine's hair, "shall I stop then? Go back to calling you things like 'gambler?'"

"What's wrong with gambler?"

"It feels cruel, given the circumstances."

"'Given the circumstances,'" Aventurine repeats back, only half-mockingly. "I think, given tonight, we can call this what it is."

"Which is...?" He's not stupid, Veritas just doesn't want to jump the metaphorical gun and make Aventurine feel even worse about this.

"Aeons, you're impossible today," Aventurine grumbles, turning his face fully into Veritas' throat, his nose pushing up against his skin in a huff. "I just... don't understand the sudden change."

Veritas sighs -- sympathetic, not frustrated -- and gives his partner another squeeze. No more teasing. This is going to be an honest conversation now. No matter how painful that might be to execute.

"It does feel cruel to me to only call you 'gambler,' now that we're... together this way. It feels cold and distant, and for once..." Another sigh as he presses his face to his lover's soft hair, still smelling of rain. "...I'd rather not have someone think of me that way. Especially not someone who... I've come to care for. So very deeply."

It's so sentimental it makes Aventurine want to cry. And that fact makes him want to cringe. He never thought he would be the type to enjoy a moment like this. To be so privileged as to have a partner who cares enough about him to call him something sweet, and to do kind things for him like share an umbrella and make him coffee on a cold, rainy night after spending the whole day together in the city. It feels too easy. It feels like more than he deserves. It feels nice.

The silence lingers. Veritas fills it first with a kiss to the crown of Aventurine's head. "But if it will make you jump every time I say it, then I won't force any of my own sentimentality onto you. We can go back to 'gambler' and 'doctor.'"

Aventurine hums. Veritas' lips lower to his temple. "I will still hold you like this every night if you let me."

A shaky breath. A kiss to his cheek. "You will always have a place here. Regardless of things others call you."

Aventurine's eyes squeeze shut. Veritas bows his head to peck his lover's already sun-kissed throat. "I love you, Aventurine. You knowing that... is what matters most to me."

He lifts a hand to his face, a breathless laugh shaking his shoulders. "You're kissing the tears out of me, you monster."

The doctor lifts his head, a touch of real panic gripping him as tightly as he has Aventurine. "I didn't mean t--"

"Aeons, stop--"

Calloused hands find Veritas' head purely by memory, fingers sliding between the loose waves of his hair like that's where they're meant to go. Veritas doesn't fight it when Aventurine pulls him into a proper kiss that's just a touch harder than he was expecting.

They remain there, locked together, for a good while. Veritas lifts his hand from Aventurine's waist to stroke his soft cheek while the other stays resting on the back of his head, holding him close. He's measured, tempered, used to taking his time, while Aventurine has energy beneath his skin just waiting to burst out. He has felt so many things tonight, and craps tables and roulette wheels be damned, the euphoria of this moment is nearly unmatched.

The doctor is the first to pull away, his first breath warm across his lover's face. When his red eyes open, he sees what remains of silvery tear tracks running across Aventurine's face, pulled sideways by gravity. He brushes them away without hesitation, and considers teasing about how he definitely kissed the tears out of Aventurine now. He decides to let him have that one.

Aventurine nuzzles into Veritas' hand and holds his wrist to keep him close. "Call me whatever you want, Doc," he murmurs, trying to hide the way his voice has thickened. "Gambler, darling... whatever. I'll be happy either way. Promise."

Veritas smiles and guides Aventurine's head back to his neck, holding him just as close as before, if not a little closer. "If that's what you want, my love, then that's what you'll have."

"God--"

He pulls back to look at his partner's face. "Too sentimental?"

Aventurine snorts and pulls him back down. "Of course not, I just have to get used to it. Now let me get some rest, my heart's been on this roller-coaster for long enough tonight."

"Alright, alright. Goodnight, Aventurine."

"Goodnight, Doc. Sweet dreams."

"Mm..."